The Dreadfuls
by Tannin Tele
Summary: Best friends and roommates Harry, Hermione and Tonks each have special skills that make them perfect for the London crime scene. In a story of revenge, star-crossed love, crime and passion, our trio juggle school work, friends and douche-bag ex-lovers. Not to mention Harry's current douche-bag lover, Tom Riddle; tall, dark, and running the largest con operation in Greater London.
1. Chapter 1

**_The Dreadfuls_**

 **TanninTele**

* * *

 _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

 **I:**

With a self-confident sway to her step, Nymphadora Tonks made her way down Blackfriars Road, a bubble of gum expanding from her lips. Her hair, equally pink, was kept in two short pigtails beneath a worn beanie. Her plaid skirt brushed against her thighs, fishnet leggings tastefully ripped to reveal pale, smooth skin.

Tonks' roommate, a fashion major, called it 'grunge revival' as he took a scissors to her tattered denim jacket, turning it into a vest. To be honest, Tonks could wear a damn trash bag and make it work, with her long-lashed bedroom eyes, slim figure and - if her ex-boyfriend could be trusted - her damn fine arse. Tonks didn't trust him.

Remus was a pathological liar with a tendency to get into bar fights, and was arrested ages ago for disorderly conduct and indecent exposure (he mooned a crowdfull of cops), but Dora was no better.

As she shoved past a crowd waiting for the crosswalk, her hand slipped into a man's overlarge trench coat. Nimble fingers relinquished him of his wallet.

She turned left onto a street littered with bird shit. A flock of pigeons scattered as she clomped past, flipping through the wallet's folds. The wallet was made of cheap leather and had only a handful of pounds, a picture of a little girl, and a Travel Card. Popping her gum, Dora tossed the wallet over her shoulder and counted out around twenty notes. She could probably buy pizza tonight, meat-lovers for herself and Harry, cheese for Hermione.

" - _ferme ta gueule,_ Caractacus," someone snapped, their voice echoing through an alley. "Do _not_ tell me you have this shite under control. This hasn't been 'under control' for a month; in fact, it's only gotten _worse_ because of your ineptitude."

Tonks paused at that irritatingly pompous tone. "Good God," she murmured to herself, pressing against a wall. "I have the best luck."

"I don't care _what_ you have to do, who you have to bribe, but you will drain Rita Skeeter and her damn gossip rag for all it's worth. Call it libel. Call it false reporting. Threaten a lawsuit - _ten_ lawsuits, if you must - I want her off my back about this. She's worse than my father, and that's saying something."

The man continued speaking through his bluetooth. He was dressed head-to-toe in black, from his turtleneck to his shiny leather oxfords, as though in mourning. Mourning the state of his hair, maybe. Tonks scrunched her nose at the unnaturally white color, gelled locks plastered to his head like a protective helmet. He was leaning against his motorbike, the keys spinning around his manicured finger in an anxious manner. "You don't know the lengths I went through _just_ to leave the penthouse this morning. The 'razzi swarmed my car, so I had to take my bike and park it a damn block from the studio so they wouldn't fucking - _don't_ tell me to watch my _fucking_ language."

Calmly, Tonks reached down as if to tie her boot laces. She pulled the lace from it's holes and doubled it, yanking it tight between her hands.

" - I'm not being childish, this is serious," Draco insisted. "You can't tell him. Father would kill me," he was damn near pleading. "And t- that's a breach of our contract, you wouldn't _dare._ Yes. I'll tell him, eventually. _Yes,_ I swear. Goodbye, Caractacus, and fuck you, too." He hung up, breathing out in irritation. _"Arsehole."_

As Draco reached for his bike helmet, Tonks crept up behind him, brown eyes flashing with anticipation. In one, swift motion, she looped the laces around his throat. Draco gasped, hands flying upwards.

"Drop the keys," Tonks hissed into his ear, voice thick with a Cockney accent. "Drop them, now."

He began to tremble and the darting of his eyes betrayed an inner debate between fight or flight. But they were alone in the alley, and while Draco was finely muscled for his profession, Tonks wasn't afraid of breaking a nail. She tightened the cord, and his fingers dutifully uncurled.

The keys fell with a clatter onto the cement, and she covered them with her boot, sliding them towards her. Tonks smiled. "Thanks, love," her bubble blew, and _popped,_ the pink bits spraying onto the fine strands of his hair. Draco made a soft whimpering noise.

A new bounce to her step, Tonks snatched up the keys and straddled the bike. It was a beautiful beast, white and sleek. She slipped the helmet over her outrageously pink hair and waved a hand. In it was his brand-new cell phone, glossy and lighting up with new texts. _Where are you, baby?_ One read, from a contact labeled simply _Tori_ with a emoticon heart.

She tsked, tossing it over her shoulder, where the screen shattered. "Wotcher, man-whore."

Outrage flashed in Draco's icy eyes, but before he could speak - voice likely damaged, anyhow - the motor revved and Tonks took off into the streets

* * *

Tonks arrived safely at their apartment, pulling into a parking space near the front door. She didn't much care if that prick's bike got stolen (again). Even if it _was_ a beautiful ride and probably cost half her tuition, it's owner left much to be desired.

Tucking the helmet beneath her armpit, she slid her ID into the scanner, and with a green blink, the lobby door clicked open. The lobby was unmanned. Tonks took the opportunity to check their mail, the envelopes crisp in her calloused hands. She took the elevator up, and tasting that her gum had lost it's flavor, stuck it to the button for level 3. The muscle-headed assholes in the room above them had been playing video games until three a.m. for the past week, and she was sick and tired of hearing gunfire and victorious shouts. She got enough of that shit at work, thanks.

Room 2-b's door was propped open. Harry didn't listen to music while he worked. He said it influenced him too much, forcing ideas and themes that hindered his creative process. Tonks didn't mind, as Harry's music taste was shit anyways, but it was always eerie to come home to an utterly silent home, with nothing but the soft _chink_ of his needle passing through fabric.

Harry was on his knees before a half-mannequin, the head absent and it's torso swathed in some creamy, chiffon fabric. His green eyes were narrowed in deep concentration as he pinned a corner up, the draping resembling some Ancient Greek fashion.

"It's a toga," he said to himself. "It's a _fucking_ toga." Removing the pins from his mouth, he slashed a violent line through the open sketch book on his lap. He tugged a hand through his dark curls, coiffed and falling purposefully over his forehead. His long sleeved shirt was rolled up at his elbows, his jeans faded and distressed. Quite like him.

"Jesus," Tonks said in amusement, shutting the door. "Or, should I say, Zeus?"

Harry pushed away the mannequin, it's wheels squeaking against the hardwood. "You would know, _Nymphadora."_

"Don't _call_ me Nymphadora." By now, she'd said the words so often they didn't have quite the same sting. She looked down at the motorcycle helmet. "Catch."

The small man grunted, the helmet colliding with his stomach. "What the -"

"Look familiar?" Tonks grinned, collapsing onto their futon. She pushed aside Harry's box of colored pencils and the squares of fabric scattered on the cushion, making room for her legs. Toeing off her boots, she leaned back and smirked at the ceiling fan.

Harry turned the helmet around in his hands, eyes widening at the customized logo. _DM._ "Tonks! You _can't_ keep doing this!"

"Whyever not?" she asked, innocent, as though she hadn't just committed a larceny.

"You're going to end up with a restraining order," Harry warned, standing. He threw the helmet onto the coffee table, shoved at her legs and collapsed exhaustedly beside her. "First you hacked his Wikipedia page - "

"It's not hacking if they have an _'edit'_ button."

"It's hacking if you made it permanent," Harry reminds, before continuing. "You _hacked_ his Wikipedia page, changing his middle name to 'Lucinda' and, in his bio, heavily imply he was born out of wedlock _and_ subscribes to neo-nazism."

Tonks snorted, putting her feet in Harry's lap. "He's the poster-boy for the Aryan race. Besides, you _told_ me he has a tattoo on his back that highly resembles a swastika."

"It was a Celtic knot, Tonks. A Celtic. Knot." He emphasized.

Pink hair splayed across the pillow as she tilted her head. "Any picture proof?" she asked slyly. "I know a guy who works Photoshop like his bitch."

Taking a breath for courage, Harry ignored her. " _Then,_ you sprayed 'Man-Whore' across his billboard on Piccadilly, and now, grand theft auto. _One of these things is worse than the others,_ " he sang to her.

"Oh," she flapped a negligent hand. "Malfoy isn't gonna snitch. He knows he deserves it. Simple reminder, Harry, he _cheated_ on you. He gave you that ugly shiner you hide beneath all that concealer," Harry pushed up his vintage, wire-rimmed glasses, flushing. "And immediately left to fuck one of the infamous Greengrass sisters." Tonks narrowed her eyes. "Or was it both? I've lost track of the scandal."

Harry's voice was tight, forcibly dismissive. "I have it on good authority that Daphne is in Havana with her screenwriter girlfriend. It was Astoria that he fucked, to state it crudely, and I _don't_ want to talk about it."

Tonks blinked at him, brows drawn. "I'm worried about you, is all. Your sketchbook consists of more angry scribbles than art, and you've begun to take it out on your mannequins," she nodded toward the headless object, looking pitiful in nude colors and drooping fabric. Harry made a pained, contorted expression.

Tonks sat up, scooting towards him. "We have thin walls, you know. I heard you crying last night. Practically _moaning_." Her tone softened, almost teasing, to lighten the situation. "I suppose it was a nightmare about all that unsatisfactory sex you had with Draco, hm?"

A bright pink flush cross Harry's features, climbing down his throat, tastefully covered with a patterned neckerchief. A dark, prominent mark stood out on his pale skin. "Um."

Tonks gasped. Her hand flew to yank down the fabric, whistling at the gnarly hickey. "Harry James! You moved on quick. Who was it, then? Or, rather, _how_ was it?" she wiggled her brows.

 _"Tom_ was quite attentive, thank you," he slapped her hand away and fixed the kerchief.

"How did he even get _in?"_

"Through the window," Harry admitted shyly. "He climbed up the fire escape."

Tonks cooed. "How _Romeo and Juliet_."

"If by that, you mean _foolishly romantic,_ then yes," With a sigh, Harry laid his head against Tonks' knee, running an idle finger up the fishnet. "But to answer your question, he was very, very good."

The front door slammed open. Harry sat up, while Tonks remained reclined, used to Hermione's theatrics. _"Who_ was very good?"

Hermione was a flurry of shopping bags and dark hair. Harry immediately stood to help her with the bags, grunting at the weight of what seemed like dozens of books. "There was a sale at _Flourish and Blotts,"_ she explained, removing a novel entitled _Das Parfum_. She tossed it at Tonks, smiling placidly at the exclamation of pain. "When I saw it, I thought of you. I bought a copy, also. Your mum would want you to keep up with your German, _ja_?"

 _"Küss meinen arsch,"_ Tonks mumbled, rubbing the side of her head.

"So," Hermione huffed, releasing her armful of bags onto the kitchen counter. "What were you talking about?"

Harry's hands stilled as he sorted through the books. "Um."

"Our precious, innocent boy has been having a secret affair behind our backs!" Tonks said, grinning broadly. "He's been _fooling around_ with Tom Riddle. _Tomfoolery."_

Hermione swung around to glare accusingly at Harry. "You aren't!"

"He is!" Tonks said gleefully. "I, for one, am jealous. Tom is every man and woman's dream. Tall, dark, and - "

"Running the largest con operation in Greater London," the dark-skinned girl hissed.

"Allegedly," Tonks added.

"What if he's conning you?"

Dora grinned. "It must be a very _long_ con, then, eh, Harry?" Although red-faced, Harry gave Tonks a subtle nod.

Hermione threw her hands up and turned to her bag. "You've already had your heart broken once this year, Harry," she spoke primly. "I don't think jumping into a relationship with a known heart-breaker would be good for you."

"Just because you haven't had a relationship with anyone other than your fictional characters -" Harry began.

With a gasp, Hermione hit him with a magazine. "You _twat!"_

"That's a hate crime!" he announced.

"Speaking of twats, I ran into the king of them today," Tonks spoke idly from the couch. She was flipping through _Das Parfum_ , nose crinkled in boredom. "I overheard him screeching at some poor lad on the phone, and, well, I stole his phone." Harry covered his face in his hands. "I couldn't help it," she said in defense. "Also, I'm paying for dinner tonight."

"We don't want your dirty money," Hermione snipped, escorting the weak-kneed Harry over to an armchair. "As much as I abhor that Riddle fellow, I'm awfully glad you've moved on," she told him. "I've got news. Astoria Greengrass - _that bitch -"_ she and Tonks harmonized. "Has made the front page of Rita Skeeter's _Daily Prophet."_

"Again?" Harry asked, peeking through his fingers. "I hope she had a nip-slip."

"Worse," Hermione said grimly. She passed him the magazine, previously used to assault him. The attractive blonde on the cover was dressed in sweatpants and a ponytail, a red arrow pointing beneath her rather voluptuous breasts.

 _"ASTOUNDING!"_ Harry read aloud. _"Astoria Greengrass, Five Months Pregnant?"_ he lowered the paper, voice breaking. " _Is model Draco Malfoy the father?"_

Tonks sat up abruptly, snatching the magazine from his hands. She immediately flipped to the indicated page. Harry felt deeply ill.

Hermione raised her hands, consolingly. "Let's not panic."

"He's panicking," Tonks sighed. Harry's eyes were glistening, his head angled down toward his empty lap, hands trembling.

"Five months," Harry murmured, fists clenching. "That means he was with her while we were dating. More than the once."

Hermione's features pinched as she tentatively placed a hand on his shoulder. "It could be speculation. Rita Skeeter isn't known for her journalistic integrity, and you know how she loves dragging reputations through the mud. Just last week, she accused the Black family of incest -"

Tonks raised a finger. "That is, unfortunately, true."

"Thanks, Dora," Hermione sent her a warning glare. "The point is - "

"He mentioned Skeeter," Tonks spoke abruptly, glancing up from the article. "He was talking this guy, Cataracts-something about suing her for libel."

"See!" Hermione said, pleased. "It's fake."

Harry raked a hand through his hair. "No," he sighed, voice breaking. "Caractacus Burke is the Malfoy's lawyer. If Burke is involved, you know it's big. It must be true."

Hermione and Tonks exchanged a long glance. The night Harry came home a month ago, tears drying on his cheeks and a dark bruise blossoming beneath his eye was still fresh in their memories. The television had been on, an image of Harry's boyfriend snogging with famous actress Astoria Greengrass broadcast on nearly all the celebrity channels.

Astoria had been cast as the lead in a television drama, with Draco co-starring as her character's on-again, off-again boyfriend. Harry had felt incredibly uncomfortable watching the show's premiere, and was secretly pleased when the ratings had sunk. Draco had been rarely on-screen except for the occasional hook-up or petty fight, but the chemistry between the two had been obvious.

Harry supposed he should have expected it.

That didn't make him feel any less like shit.

* * *

 ** _To be continued . . ._**


	2. Chapter 2

**_The Dreadfuls_**

 **TanninTele**

* * *

 _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

 **II:**

 ** _Godric's Hollow, England_**

Despite the bare trees and the smell of decaying leaves collecting in the gutters declaring autumn was on the way out, it was a reasonably nice day in the suburbs of Godric's Hollow.

The sun was giving one last 'hurrah', it's swan song, before succumbing to the winter chill. Angela Johnson took advantage of this blessing and donned her joggers and sports bra. This was likely to be her last jog until the Spring. Angela was prone to allergies and knew to expect a season full of intrusive allergist appointments; _Yes_ , she took her vitamins. _No_ , she didn't smoke. _Yes_ , she exercised regularly.

In practiced movements, Angela tugged her long brown hair into a high pony-tail and began her stretches. She had a heart monitor strapped to her arm, along with her cell phone, from which Pink Floyd blasted through her headphones. Bounding down the steps of her cheap rambler, Angela lost herself in the rhythmic movements of her muscles and her measured breaths. Jogging helped clear her head.

Angela was a graduated from business school, condemned to a career behind a desk at some firm, taking calls from flustered clients, filing paperwork or tracking the stock market. It was boring as fuck and didn't offer many opportunities for advancement, but it was _stable._ Although she once dreamed to be a star athlete or a woman's right's activist, financial security was, admittedly, the more responsible option.

Wiping her face, Angela stopped at the corner of Minos Road, eyes lighting upon a lemonade stand.

It boasted in lopsided handwriting to be the _'best lemonade on the block'._ A little girl with glossy blonde hair sat cross-legged beneath the shade. Her back was towards the road as she read book on her lap. Angela looked down at the innocuous pitcher of lemonade, ice long melted, Dixie cups stacked.

Tugging at her armband, she muted the music and pulled out a folded pound note. She reached to rap on the tabletop. "Hey, sweetie. How much for a cup?" The girl didn't react, seemingly enthralled with her book. Angela tilted her head, noticing that the child hadn't flipped a single page. She was, in fact, quite motionless. Her fingers were oddly placed, the pale digits pressed into the image of _Dick and Jane_. Sleeping, perhaps? Or ignoring Angela?

"Kiddo?" Tentatively, Angela stepped around the table, into the grass.

Touching the girl's shoulder, the child slumped forward, and Angela screamed at the sight of dead blue eyes.

* * *

 ** _Hogwarts Academy_**

"Can anyone find the common factor in these killings?" Professor McGonagall asked the class. "Other than the obvious."

She peered over her glasses imperiously as nearly all of the upraised hands slowly lowered. The professor ignored the frantically fluttering arm of Cho Chang and sighed in disappointment.

"Alright, fine. Let us look at the evidence," she clicked a button on his remote. The screen behind her flicked past several images of crudely-made lemonade stands, evidence markers placed next to the pitchers of juice and the identical _Dick and Jane_ books.

"The victims were all girls, aged five-to-six, with blonde hair and similar build. They were selected from the nearby school-grounds, lured from their recess periods and smothered with a lethal amount of chloroform. The bodies were carefully dressed - much like dolls - in pink, handmade dresses, mimicking a style from the 1950s. They were placed facing away from the street, the same copy of _Dick and Jane: Guess Who_ placed in their laps," her perpetually pursed lips twitched slightly at the title. "The lemonade was made from freshly-squeezed lemons. There were faint traces of lacrimation in the juice - that would be tears, Miss Chang." She said, glaring at her raised hand. "However, the DNA was unsalvageable due to the lemon's acidity."

"In terms of location, the bodies were found in broad daylight, blocks from their elementary school." She showed a Google Maps screenshot of each crime scene, and was pointedly quiet for a moment. "No one sees the correlation here?"

It was a Friday. Perhaps this could explain the listlessness of his class, but Minerva had little patience for incompetence. Her eyes narrowed on the idly doodling figure of Harry Potter. He sat in the front row, near the door, making for an easy escape. He was dressed in nearly all black, the shadows molding around him, hiding him from plain sight. The boy's curly fringe covered his eyes, his right hand deft in sketching the The Dollmaker's victim.

Minerva cleared her throat. "Mister Potter? Would you like to join the class in this discussion?"

Potter winced. He sat down his pen and leaned back, staring at the screen.

Minerva suspected Harry, usually an engaged student, was under some sort of emotional crisis. He was a lively child on most occasions, making many thoughtful insights and showing an immense ability to understand the motives of even the most perplexing killers. It was intriguing, and McGonagall wanted to put him to the test.

"Any thoughts, Potter?"

The boy was quiet for several long moments, as if deliberating.

"The street names." He said eventually. Harry pushed the fringe from his forehead, eyes flicking back and forth between his drawing and the screen. "Crete Circle. Labyrinth Lane. And the last one, Minos Road. All references to Greek mythology. Specifically, the myth of the Minotaur."

"Very good, Mister Potter," Minerva said with a small smile. "You've surprised me." Harry ducked his head, and Minerva continued. "Meet Ariadne Dumbledore, six-year-old sister of Albus Dumbledore," with a click, he revealed a black-and-white image of a smiling little girl, her hair light and her cheeks flushed. A bow was tied in her hair.

"She died young, brutally stoned to death by a gang of boys while setting up a lemonade stand on the corner of her street. It wasn't easy to find her. All we knew was the killer's archetype. The girls were donned in dresses from the 1950s, so that narrowed down the time scheme. At a loss, we considered the other items left for us. The books - _Dick and Jane_ \- were supplied from antique shops throughout London, sold to a man in his late fifties. Security cameras captured his face, and once we found Albus, everything just . . . came together.

"Albus Dumbledore grieved for fifty years before his torment came to fruition. His defense claimed Albus was experiencing early signs of Alzheimer's, and clung to the memory of his little sister, sitting happily at her lemonade stand, practicing her reading. He sought to recreate the moments before she was attacked, freezing her in time with his . . . little dolls," disgust and pity colored the professor's voice. "Dumbledore was hailed by his defense as a grieving old man, under the effects of an unavoidable disease. They pleaded insanity, and he was sent to a mental institution rather than face the full extent of the law . . . rather than face the families of the little girls he killed.

"The girls died painlessly, no doubt, but that doesn't make their passing any less unpleasant for their parents and siblings. Siblings whom he has condemned to a lifetime of grief. Who is to say they won't go down a similar path? Who is to say this brutal cycle won't begin again?"

Tentatively, Cho Chang raised her hand. Minerva nodded at her, leaning back against her desk.

". . . You sound doubtful, professor. Do you think Albus Dumbledore guilty? If he wasn't in the full capacity of his brain at the time of the murders - "

Minerva waved a negligent hand. "We could talk in circles on this subject all day, Miss Chang. Psychology and criminality go hand in hand often, but I'm in no way qualified to lecture you on it. I was a field worker, Miss Chang. I looked at the evidence given and followed it to to Albus Dumbledore." She spoke slowly. "And the evidence tells me, regardless of his mental state or constitution, that Albus Dumbledore killed those girls."

Chang seemed ready to argue, and while Minerva respected her for it, she would not begin this debate today. "Perhaps I can put it this way," the professor paced across the platform and spoke clearly, firmly, hands behind her back. "A person is killed, and you blame the one holding the knife. But the killer, unfortunately, was abused as a child and is clearly mentally unstable. His parent that abused him was raped, and never wished to be a mother in the first place. Her rapist, too, was a damaged individual, and was only loving her the only way _he knew how._

"This is all hypothetical, of course; but it's a chain of tragic events leading up to it's latest victim. We can point our fingers all day, blame the circumstances or a chemical imbalance, conjecture the court's ear off, but that doesn't change to result.

"How do we prevent murders of the past? How do we protect the victims of future trauma? We are not all-knowing, Miss Chang. We can educate, we can remove children from hostile situations, we can rehabilitate killers, and prevent them from repeating these actions. But we _cannot_ predict the future. We cannot change the past. I have no clear answer for you, except to reassure that so long as there's a vicious cycle to be had - a spiked wheel, throttling innocents wherever it rolls - " she spoke dramatically. "That people like _us_ will be there to remove a few spokes. And _perhaps_ the cycle will break."

Her words resounded through the lecture hall.

"Your job this week; with the partner you were assigned at the beginning of the semester, research this case and others like it. Convoluted plots, in which you wonder ' _who is truly to blame?'_ when it comes to the perception of both justice and revenge."

With that, McGonagall dismissed the class. Cho, of course, stayed behind to ask questions. Minerva indulgently answered them, while the rest of the students fled in a flurry of coats and scarves. Harry Potter was moving slow, ripping a piece of paper from his notebook.

Minerva dismissed Chang, and began turning off the projector.

"Mister Potter," she said evenly. "Was there something you needed?"

Harry pressed his lips together, stepping down from the stands. "I - yes, Professor," he seemed nervous. Now that he was in the light, Minerva could see he was wearing a dark-blue mandarin dress shirt, patterned with brocade swirls. Beneath, he wore black leggings so tight that Minerva wondered if she had to refer him to the school dress-code.

"Shouldn't you be headed to your next lesson?"

"It's a free period. Professor, I . . . wanted to talk about the killer's insanity plea."

Minerva sighed dramatically, gathering her papers with an impatient speed. "I believe I made my message clear, didn't I? The evidence - "

"The evidence points to Albus Dumbledore, yes. You traced him through the books and the street names, and you found the correct man, but the very _notion_ that Dumbledore was in anyway complacent to his crime because of Alzheimer's is - well - " Potter visibly attempted to calm himself. "The evidence suggests that Dumbledore cried while making the lemonade. He squeezed the lemons fresh, having hand-picked the fruit from - if I made a guess - a tree in his yard? He tailored the girls' dresses from memory, the fabric and style mimicking that of his little sister's. He made lemonade stands by hand and placed them on roads named for Greek characters.

"These murders weren't made by a disoriented and diseased man. His design was _premeditated_ , for years, even. He killed them within weeks of each other, leading up to the fiftieth anniversary of his sister's death."

McGonagall tried to interrupt, but Potter continued. His eyes were faintly glazed as he stared down at the crumpled drawing of the killer's first victim. "How did he know these girls? All blonde, all the same age, all living within miles from the same elementary school - " Potter flickered his gaze up. "Did Mister Dumbledore have a grandchild?"

The professor blinked and slowly reached for her files. "I - believe so, yes," licking her fingers, Minerva flipped through the manilla folder. "He adopted a son, who had a daughter named Rosemary. Six years old. A brunette, which didn't match the archetype, so we didn't think she was - "

"She wasn't his target. But she was a connection to those other girls," Harry spoke quietly. "Six years young and loved dearly by her grand-pappy. He couldn't kill her. He wasn't inclined. But watching her grow struck a chord in him. He made those dresses and the lemonade stands under the pretense of giving them to Rosemary. He bought the same book three times, and if anyone noticed the repetition, they would assume his aging mind was declining. It's not difficult to fake confusion and memory loss to pass the M'Naghten Rules . . ." Harry trailed off, letting Minerva fill in the blanks herself.

"The perfect cover," she murmured. "Hiding behind his age and the expectation of illness."

"Dumbledore was smart. He was determined. But he's _not_ a psychopath. He was merciful when killing the girls, and treated their bodies with care," Harry imagined a wrinkled hand wiping tears from the pale, blemish-less cheek of a doll-like creature. "I'm certain after the anniversary of his sister's death, he would have never killed again. He may even have grown to regret the pain he caused to the families. There's no doubt the man is twisted, but like you said in your example of the mother and the rapist, he was just . . . showing them familial love in the only way he knew. _Storge_. He was memorializing his sister, and - perhaps - after fifty years, finally gaining closure for himself."

McGonagall considered Potter for a long, uncomfortable moment. Harry was utterly motionless, refusing to show his desperate need for the woman's approval. "You've given me much to think about, Mister Potter," she said, eventually. "If what you say is true, and Albus Dumbledore is acting under some sort of . . . Munchausen syndrome, I owe it to the families of those girls to reopen the investigation. The mental institution is too good for him."

Harry gave a short nod in thanks. Minerva contemplated him once more. "Good work, Potter. If this pans out, I may be willing to give you a recommendation for - "

"Oh. Oh, no thank you," he interrupted, tightening the bag around his shoulders. "I'm not going into law enforcement. Not anymore."

The woman narrowed her eyes. "You have a knack for it, Potter. What made you choose to abandon your dream of becoming a police officer, for - "

"Designing their uniforms?" Harry said with a slight laugh. "It's . . . safer. My father was a policeman, and I always wanted to follow in his footsteps. But, lately . . . " he trailed off.

"I understand your reluctance. But, truly, if you ever change your mind, we'd be lucky to have you."

He flushed, demure. "I really don't - "

"Learn to take a compliment, Potter," Minerva shook her head, still in disbelief. "Was that all?"

Harry paused. "My project partner, who you assigned at the start of the year? Ron Weasley? He hasn't attended class in weeks. Do I have to - "

"You have to," she said firmly. "Track him down. Tell him, if he wants to pass the course he must do this assignment and all other partner projects. Now, off with you. I've got to make a call."

Harry fled the classroom like the hounds of Hell were on his tail.

* * *

Hermione worked afternoons in the onsite library. Her uniform consisted of a frayed red lanyard, a picture of herself next to the Hogwarts Academy emblem, and a black pen, tucked into her breast pocket.

The library was painted in brown and tan, the air smelling faintly of must. Fliers were strewn across the community bulletin board; _Learn Self-Defense with Professor Flitwick - Join Youth Leadership! -_ _Help Protect Against Terrorism: If You Suspect It, Report It._

"Hermione?" her head jerked up. The head librarian was a slim, wrinkled woman named Madam Pince, her brown hair faded and grey. She wore silver readers that teetered on the tip of her nose, their beaded chain looping over her small ears. "Can you quiet those brats?" she murmured, dried lips smacking.

A small group of pimply, freshmen students had entered the library. They snickered beneath their breath at Madam Pince, who was struggling with the staple remover. "Find a place to sit," Hermione snapped at them, grabbing an armful of history books. She pushed them into the proper bookshelves, running a finger down a dusty spine.

"Hermione," Annie said out from behind the desk. She stacked her papers onto the table, nudging them away with a pencil. "File these under Overdue, if you will? It's been over four months since Mister Potter checked out that book on forensics. I've sent him email after email, but nothing! He's your roommate, isn't he? Speak with him?" she pleaded.

Hermione smiled apologetically. "I'll try, Madam Pince." Inwardly, she remembered the peanut-butter stained book shoved beneath Harry's covers. Madam Pince would be scandalized at the state of it. It'd probably be best if Harry just paid the overdue fee.

As she was in the office sorting through a number of manilla files, Hermione spotted a familiar head of pink hair outside the library, next to a slim boy. She squinted her eyes, pushing aside the white curtain.

Speak of the devil.

Nymphadora had rode up on her motorbike, Harry's arms wound tight about her waist. He was flushed and had wind-swept hair, while Dora was dressed in an overlarge bike jacket, her hair in cornrows. Harry stumbled off the bike, looking ready to puke.

Hermione nearly banged her forehead against the glass.

They were so _embarrassing._

As they entered the front door, Hermione sighed, and pulled her brown hair back. It was tight against her scalp, revealing her strong jaw and sharp nose. Deciding to waste as much time as possible, Hermione tidied up the office. Unfortunately, could only straighten the same files so many times. With heavy feet, she dragged herself to the front desk, hearing Tonks' high voice reverberating through the library.

Hermione was the only librarian available. Madam Pince was gone, likely taking a smoke in the back alley. Hermione tucked a curl behind her ear and busied herself on the old Windows XP computer. As she was checking the archive, a delicate rap came at the desk.

Hermione glanced up for the briefest of seconds, before covering her eyes with a gasp.

Dora had taken her jacket off, the sleeves wrapped around her hips. She was wearing - what Harry would call - a crop top, but the hem stopped less than a millimeter beneath her nipples. It showed far more cleavage than Hermione would prefer seeing at her place of work.

"Honestly, Dora," she murmured. "You're dressed like a harlot."

"I am a harlot, dear," Tonks placed her elbows on the desk, leaning forward suggestively. The tone had shifted to something Hermione was even less comfortable with. Feeling a lick of heat rise to her cheeks, Hermione fixated her gaze onto Dora's chin. Safe, neutral ground.

"Normally I would _never_ bother you at your place of work," Tonks was explaining to her, twisting a thin pink braid between her thumb and forefinger. "But Harry needs your expertise for his criminology course. I thought we could take a little jaunt over and visit our _very_ best friend."

Hermione scowled. "And where will you be? If I catch you getting someone off in the bathroom - "

"I'll be over by the bean-bag chairs. Promise."

The librarian sniffed. " _Fine_. But library rules still apply. If I see you _abusing_ the books in anyway, or god-forbid, _flirting_ with those freshman, I will kick you out faster than you can say - _son of a bitch,"_ Hermione swore. Tonks had already sauntered toward the freshman, her pink lips stretched into a teasing grin.

Harry muffled a laugh.

Hermione shot him a glare. "What do _you_ want, then?"

"Right. Well, I have a project due on Albus Dumbledore," Harry told her. "He's a child killer who was falsely exonerated. Do you have any old newspapers, or . . . ?"

Hermione quickly tapped 'Dumbledore' into the library database. She scrolled through a few options. "I can commission some newspapers quite soon," Hermione offered. "A few case files are available, but they're rather gruesome, fair warning."

"That's perfect, thanks," he said, distractedly.

"All of it? Would you like me to request the newspapers, too?"

 _"Everything,"_ Harry emphasized, scowling. "I need all the information I can get."

Hermione considered him. "You look constipated."

"Frustrated, more like. I'm doing all the work by myself. McGonagall assigned me a partner who hasn't been in class for weeks. He's been skipping, or something, but I'm the one who has to pay for it."

Hermione made a sympathetic cluck. "I can imagine. Want to talk about it, love?"

"Things have just been . . . rough lately, is all. With Draco and Tom, and my _stupid_ lab partner. _Boys_. Honestly, I should've stayed in the closet."

The librarian snorted. "Come behind my desk, Harry," she quirked her finger. "I've got something to show you." That sounded potentially ominous, and more than a bit suggestive.

Harry arched a brow. "You're pretty and all, Hermione, but I _really_ don't swing that way."

"Shut up and get back here." Glancing around for Madam Pince, she tugged Harry by the sleeve. "Check this out." Hermione typed out a password, too fast for Harry to read, and a long list of names appeared on screen. "We have a database for everyone with a school library card. You had to fill out an application, remember? Date of birth, contact info - "

"Clever girl," he praised. "Look up 'Weasley'," Harry urged, eyes bright and reflecting the screen. He pulled a notepad toward him and swiped the pen from Hermione's pocket.

She made a vague swat at his hand. "Okay . . . there are - wow, a lot of Weasleys. That's not a common name, is it? There's Charles - that one's expired, Frederick, George, Ginevra, Percival, Ronald - "

"Ron Weasley. That's him," Harry scrawled out the boy's address. "Ugh. He's in a fraternity. Gryffindor House."

"Of course he is," Hermione grimaced. She quickly exited the page and shooed Harry away. "Your books will arrive in two weeks time," she said imperiously, nose in the air, just as Madam Pince returned. She smelt distinctly of tobacco.

Harry folded the parchment and grinned at her. "Thank you very much, Miss Granger. Oi, Tonks!"

Madam Pince, Hermione, and plenty of others, shushed him.

Tonks looked up from where she was perched on a ladder. She had been whispering into a freshman boy's ear, his eyes wide and a textbook held suspiciously over his lap. "Wotcher, Colin," she winked. Tonks removed her hand from his back pocket, palming a velcro wallet. "Best of luck on your test."

She bounced back to her friends and leaned across the counter to kiss Hermione on the cheek. "Later, love." Her lips left a faint stain on Hermione's flushed cheeks.

Hermione glared at their backs as Tonks steered a giggling Harry away. "What was _that_ about?"

"As a distraction, I told that kid if he was _a good boy,_ he could stop by some night and watch 'Mione and I have sweet, steamy lesbian love." Tonks slipped his wallet into her jacket's inner pocket.

"Uh - " Harry choked on his laugh. "Why?"

She shrugged. "Poor kid is studying Gender and Sexuality 101. I was just offering hands-on tutoring."

"You don't even _go_ to this school," Harry reminded.

"Yeah, but suckers like him pay for your tuition, not to mention our rent." She pulled on the motorbike helmet. "Where to, mi'lord?"

"Gryffindor House fraternity. And, this time, go the speed limit? _Please?"_ He wound his arms around her, already anticipating a bumpy ride. Tonks reversed them with a jerk, spinning them eastward.

"No promises!"

* * *

 ** _To be continued . . ._**


	3. Chapter 3

**_The Dreadfuls_**

 **TanninTele**

* * *

 _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

 ** _Chapter Warning: Recreational Drug Use and Brief Non-Con Sexual Content_**

* * *

 **III:**

The sky was burning orange when they arrived at Gryffindor frat house. It seemed that as the sun went down, the partying began. On the roof of the three-story, run-down home, a shirtless boy was whooping, thrusting two large sticks in the air. They were slathered with soap, and as the wind picked up, human-sized bubbles were released into the air. A group of girls, sitting at the edge of a fenced-off pool screamed and cowered as the bubble was popped, showering them in sticky soap.

Tonks smirked. These were her people.

They parked in front of the house and Tonks shucked off her jacket. "Think they'll even let us in there?" Harry asked nervously.

"Oh, definitely," Tonks assured him, fixing her halter top. She adjusted the switchblade tucked in her bra. "So long as I'm with you, at least. You still look underage."

Harry frowned at her. "I don't have much experience with parties." The only ones he attended were his aunt's garden parties, in which he served tea and little sandwiches to the gossiping, red-hat wearing house wives of Surrey. Their high voices and cheek-pinching ways enforced in him a deep abhorrence for floral patterns.

"Should we have brought . . . I don't know, cheese dip or something?"

Tonks laughed, but didn't bother answering the question. She bounced up the front steps, leaving Harry to linger behind. Harry ran a hand through his hair, recently washed, letting his natural curls frame his face. Tonks playfully called it his 'sex hair'. He'd shaved that morning, but his five o'clock shadow was dark and prickly.

"Just be yourself," she told him unhelpfully, squeezing his wrist. The door opened. "Wotcher," Tonks said to the college student leaning casually against the frame. "Heard there was a party. Got any beer?"

The redhead, wearing a ketchup-stained shirt and swimshorts, eyed her up and down. He gave her a lazy smile. He was devilishly freckled, and had tattoos twining up his arms and neck. Harry could see a fiery dragon on his collarbone, tail twined around the letter 'W', along with some strange serpent and skull design on his forearm that Harry didn't immediately recognize.

"For you, love? I got something a bit stronger," the boy smirked. "The name's Fred. If you see someone that looks like me, but sober and far less handsome, that's my twin George. Come on in, I'll show you the kitchen."

Dora grabbed Fred's extended elbow, following him into the house with a self-satisfied grin. Gryffindor House was crowded and most certainly decorated by a hunter, made of dark wood and decorated with lots of antlers. Spoils of the hunt were displayed on the walls; a sleek black hunting rifle, the coat of a lion, an indigenous tapestry. "Gryffindor's founder, Godric Gryffindor was an avid hunter," the boy said proudly. "It's become a tradition to go hunting every season. Top of the leader-board is Oliver Wood, who graduated last year," he nodded toward a glossy wooden plaque. "He's at the party tonight. He shot a fourteen stone buck last year; that's it's hide." They stepped around a rug and the couple snogging horizontally on top of it.

The air shifted between too-cold and too-warm, and Harry shifted uncomfortably when he noticed a crowd of people snickering in the corner. They all had glasses full of some golden-brown liquid, and alcohol was heady on Fred's breath.

"Oh, they're playing Spin the Bottle!" Tonks dug her nails into Fred's arm. "Let's go play. Harry, find your lab partner; I'll be over there." Harry watched as she ditched him, laughing breathily in Fred's ear.

Sucking in a deep breath, he ventured on.

In the kitchen, a tall man was gnawing on a toothpick, barbeque sauce speckled on his lips. Strewn across the table was a haphazard array of snack foods and liquor bottles. Harry vaguely recognized the boy as Cormac McLaggen, a boy formerly tutored by Hermione in mathematics, before she reported him to an administrator for his unsolicited, inappropriate jokes.

"God, I love this shit," his lips smacked as he gnawed on a veal shish-kabob. "You're Potter, right? Good friends with Granger? I wouldn't mind seeing her at one of these parties, letting her hair down, you know." He gave Harry a sly wink.

Harry narrowed his eyes. "Hermione isn't into you, Cormac. She nearly broke your wrist the last time you tried to grope her."

"I'd gladly take the blow again for another handful of that thick ass," Cormac jeered. Harry glowered at him, fighting the urge to take some of those kebob sticks and shove it into his eye. If Cormac laid a single finger on 'Mione -

"Hey, man," McLaggen took note of Harry's stony expression. "You gotta loosen up, I was just playing. Want a beer? Georgie got some of the good shit."

A cold, wet bottle was shoved into his hands, condensation dripping down his wrist. The cap had been popped off for him, and Harry took a slow sip. He was all-too familiar with beer, his uncle's drink of choice. His early childhood had been spent throwing out empty bottles, dodging them as they were lobbed at his head, and picking the shards of glass from his skin if he moved too slow.

"Damn it," Eyes narrowing, Cormac darted outside after a few boys struggling with a beer keg and a plastic funnel. "For fuck's sake, Seamus, no anal chugging! No one wants to see your pasty arse!"

Harry wondered how these people could consider themselves adults. Some of the men here, like Cormac, were pushing their late twenties, destined to be college wash-outs; all muscle mass, rotted liver and no brain.

Sighing, he took a reluctant drink of his beer. A crowd cheered in the distance as two dark-skinned girls began sloppily making out. "Lavender," a red-haired boy groaned, slumping into a kitchen chair. "Not again."

"That your girlfriend?" Harry asked, amused. The boy had short copper hair, and was wearing a Hawaiian shirt that had seen better days. Normally, Harry would never have spoken to him except to critique his fashion sense, but he seemed oddly familiar -

The boy grunted at him. "I thought so, but I invited her, and she's clung to her 'best friend' Parvati all night."

"Don't most guys think that's hot? Two girls?" Harry spent a moment imagining Tonks and Hermione together, but shuddered. "Most straight guys, at least."

"My brothers, maybe. I just finally found a girl that found _me_ 'hot', and it turns out she's a lesbian."

Harry sent him an appreciative gaze. "I think you're cute, if that matters any."

Brown eyes peered up at him. "You do, huh?" he asked dubiously, before thrusting out a hand. "Ron Weasley. But I don't swing that way, no offense."

"Harry Potter. No offense taken," Setting down his beer, Harry shook it. Ron looked curiously at Harry's black-painted nails, before shrugging. "You're in my criminology course."

"Are we?" Ron asked sheepishly. "I - uh - haven't really been attending."

"I noticed. McGonagall assigned you as my lab partner, and - well - she's tired of dealing with your shit."

"The slides make me queasy," the boy defended. "All those dead bodies and stuff. I always wanted to be a policeman, but there's so much _gore_ _._ And it's too late in the semester for me to drop."

Harry could sympathize with that.

During the day, he avoided thinking about all he's seen, like one would avoid a swarm of bees. At night, when he tossed and turned in bed, recovering from a horrific nightmare of his mother's screams, blood seeping from a wound in his forehead, and the blaring green light of his parent's car crash . . .

Surely, a job investigating gruesome murders and psychopathic killers was detrimental to his health - but it was all he had ever desired. His father had been a policeman.

It had been Draco that wanted him to switch majors. Draco had thought police work was too dangerous. He played a police man on a television show, once, and had hated every moment of it. The uniform, the gun-toting, the inner politics. Draco said that Harry would wither away in that career, underappreciated and underpaid.

And Harry believed him.

When he lived with the Dursleys, his uncle and cousin were constantly outgrowing their old clothes or ripping their new ones. Harry quickly learned how to work a needle and thread, which came in handy modifying all of Dudley's cast-offs to actually _fit_ Harry. He figured, if he could make an overlarge t-shirt that resembled elephant skin into a tasteful tunic, he could do _anything._

Just not, apparently, police work.

Ron watched his expression tightened, concern radiating from him. "Potter - are you . . . Did I say something?"

"No, no," he brushed him off quickly. "You're fine. I'm just - " Harry loosened the first two buttons on his shirt. "We have an assignment McGonagall says needs to be done, or else she'll flunk you. And I'll be in trouble, too. She's a hard-ass."

"Look, here's my number," Ron conceded, tearing off the label on his bottle and stealing a pen from a little cup. "Call me, and we can figure out a way to get your project done. Alright?"

Harry took the note, giving a small, grateful smile. "Thanks, mate. I'm going to find my friend. I wanna go home. There's this guy here, a real perv, talking about my roommate earlier. I wanted knock his teeth in, honestly, but he'd be more likely to beat me up if I tried," Harry gave a tired laugh, struggling to his feet. "It was a pleasure. Good luck with your girlfriend."

Ron grimaced. "Don't think we'll be together in the morning, but that's alright, I suppose."

"Who knows," Harry said encouragingly. "The love of your life could be here tonight, but you're not gonna find them if you're sulking in a corner."

Brown eyes roamed around the fraternity. "You think? I hope so."

Slipping back into the throng, Harry gratefully took another beer, offered to him by a faceless partier, smoke and bright lights tinging his vision. Shoulders drawing tight, Harry cut through the crowd, evading the scantily-dressed women grinding against their partners. Vivid lights strobed across the room, illuminating the diverse skins and the glittering outfits. He found Tonks conversing with a dark-skinned girl, sitting cross-legged on the floor.

"Dora - " he tugged at her sleeve. "Are you . . . smoking?"

Held between two fingers was a skinny blunt, grey wisps burning off the end. She gave him a sheepish smile and released a stream of smoke from her nostrils. "Want a hit?" she asked innocently.

"I - not particularly," he crinkled his nose at the smell. "Is it safe to drive while high?"

"Absolutely."

Harry let out a small, dubious noise. "But - "

"Oh!" Tonks, eyes wide and bloodshot, pointed toward the beer pong table. "It's my turn. Here, take this." The blunt was placed in his hands and Tonks disappeared with a flutter of pink hair.

Harry wasn't quite sure what to do with it. It blazed slowly in his hands, and he slowly became adjusted to the smell. "You gonna hit that or just hold it?" the boy next to him asked, amused. Harry considered the blunt. One hit wouldn't do any harm, would it?

It felt normal and natural when he brought the tightly rolled paper to his lips. They parted and he inhaled the smoke, regretting it immediately.

He choked on the foul flavor, lungs suffusing with the vile pollution, burning in protest. The brown-haired boy next to him laughed, not cruelly, and plucked the blunt from Harry's fingers. "Virgin, huh?" Harry spluttered, coughing violently into his sleeve. "Take another hit, it gets better. Draw it into your mouth first, before breathing it in. Slowly, now - there. Better?"

Harry nodded, head of curls bouncing.

He leaned back and watched distractedly as Tonks reached over the table and spun the amber bottle in one, clean twist of the wrist. The bottle spun and twirled, glinting enticingly, before coming to a wobbly stop on a red-haired boy. He looked like Fred, if Fred had a doppelganger dressed in horrific Hawaiian print.

Wolf-whistles echoed as she took the proffered hand, letting herself be dragged off to some closet for 'seven minutes in heaven'. The more he smoked, the hazier things became, and he almost didn't mind when the boy next to him began to creep a hand up his leg. Heat pooled in his stomach, and he panted slightly.

"What's your name?" he whispered to the man.

The stranger grinned. "Everyone calls me Wood."

"Because of your . . . wood?"

He grinned, roguish, leaning forward to press a rough kiss to his mouth. "Sure, kid. Just relax. I think you owe me now, anyways."

Harry made a slight, desperate noise. "Um - no. I shouldn't. I'm sort of . . . I'm with someone. On and off."

The boy tipped his head. "Well, is it on or off right now?"

"On?"

Wood crept forward, pushing Harry to the floor, a gentle hand on his chest. "Are you _asking_ me, or telling me?"

Harry's gasp was muffled by a warm, wet, foul-tasting tongue in his mouth.

* * *

Tonks watched with hooded, glazed eyes, as the stem of the bottle spun - and the shiny ring landed on Fred. Or was it George?

The boy grinned, and Tonks curled an enticing finger toward him. "Seven minutes in heaven, love?"

George nodded almost frantically. Tonks allowed herself to be lead away. George pulled her down a set of stairs and opened a door, the wood creaking. The closet was warm, and a furnace thrummed like a beating heart. Tonks was pushed against the wall, her knee slotted between his legs. Her hand crept to the back of his jeans, clutching at his belt. Pupils dilated, leaving only a halo of murky brown, George gave her a small smile.

"We don't have to do anything if you're not comfortable," he whispered. "I'm sober, and I'm not gonna take advantage - " he bit off with a gasp as she ground her knee up.

"Aren't you sweet?" Tonks told him, all saccharine. "Quite the gentleman for _a gang member,_ " she pushed almost painfully against his crotch. As Geooge yelped, she wrapped her fingers around his arm and flipped positions. His head slammed against the wall, and Tonks yanked up his sleeve, revealing the entirety of his Dark Mark.

"Tommy boy is hiring awfully young, isn't he?" With a _snick,_ she removed her switchblade.

"Jesus Christ, woman," George pulled away, rolling his shoulder. "Put the knife away! I'll explain!"

Tonks scowled at him, lowering the switchblade with great reluctance. Still, she kept it hanging at her side, in case the little weasel tried anything. "I don't mind your boss and my boy getting it on, but Riddle's Death Eaters are notoriously _assholes._ What are you doing in a fraternity?"

"Living my life," George muttered. "Look, girl - "

"The name's Tonks."

" _Tonks_ , then," he said empathetically. "I don't know what you _think_ you know about me or Riddle, but you shouldn't go picking fights with every Death Eater you meet. Not all of them are as nice as me and my brother, you're right about that."

The girl flipped back a dreadlock, leaning against a shelf. "How can I be assured me and my roommate will leave here unharmed? We've got five minutes left 'in heaven', more than enough for you to convince me not to shank you."

"I'm not going to hurt you," George insisted, raising his hands. "I told you, I don't take advantage. Fred and I - we don't _hurt_ people. Not permanently, anyway." He puffed out a breath of air, eyeing her switchblade. "I'm not really supposed to _tell_ people about this. These are our 'secret identities', you could say. Tom lets us daylight as regular, if not incredibly dashing college students, while at night . . . we work for him."

"Right," Tonks said slowly. "But _why?"_

George shifted uncomfortably. "A couple years ago, our baby sister Ginny got mixed up with his sort. She was only eleven, and walking home from school, she saw something she shouldn't have. It really scared her. When we found out, we tracked Tom down and messed with him for _weeks._ Pranks, mischief, general tomfoolery - " Tonks barely resisted cracking a smirk.

"We had the Death Eaters _scrambling_ with our stink bombs and carefully laid slime buckets. I even figured out how to access their fuse box and back-up generator; their command center was in total darkness, with no electricity for an hour before they caught us." He grinned stupidly. "We thought we were dead men. But instead of killing us execution-style, Mister Riddle thought we were _funny_ and offered us a job."

Tonks was incredibly skeptical.

"Well, I say 'offered', but really, it was either that or he'd kill me, Fred, and every other Weasley he could track down. There's quite a few of us, so that'd be a mass genocide. Fred and I didn't have time to think it over with a muzzle at our heads, so we agreed, and he's treated us well since. Good pay, insurance - and most importantly, he protects his own."

"What do you even _do_ for him? Prank his rivals?"

"Exactly," George beamed. "We've just become a lot more sophisticated, and - honestly - we haven't _hurt_ anyone. Just shook them up a bit, caused a distraction. It's quite fun. Except, see this mark here?" George tilted his head, showing off a large red scar just beneath his ear. "I took a bullet for Tom, once. There was a sniper, and I just so happened to be in the way of his target. It just _barely_ skimmed me, but my scream of pain alerted everyone, and the guy was taken down in seconds. Tom owes me a debt . . . so, if Fred and I ever wanted to get out of this business, I think he'd let us."

". . . You're staying with him. Willingly."

"Willingly," he nodded, grim. "The benefits far out way the - you know, potential for life in jail. But Fred and I, we aren't like them. You get that, right? Gonna put away the knife?" he asked hopefully.

Eyes narrowed, Tonks reluctantly tucked it out of sight. "So . . . " Fred said nervously. "Now that you know my big bad secret - "

"I could turn you in," she said, but didn't sound all that eager.

"But you won't?" he guessed. "You don't seem the type to give up all that easy. Lay it on me, then. What do you need from me?"

The girl shrugged, giving a smile George found charming, now there wasn't a knife in his face. "I didn't think all that far ahead, to be honest. Well, there is the small matter of your boss shacking my best friend - "

"Right," George grinned. "I saw the little viper earlier. Quite the catch, eh?"

A knife was at his throat before he could blink. "Jesus, I'm kidding! I'm more attracted to the fairer sex, to be honest. I've seen enough of my five brothers' peckers - accidentally, mind - to be satisfied for a lifetime. As for your little buddy, you don't need to worry. Riddle's mad about him. It's sickening, how soft boss man's gotten," he smiled, betraying an inner fondness. "I bet he was thrilled when that model, what's his name, something pretentious - "

"Draco Malfoy," Tonks snickered.

 _"Draco Malfoy,"_ he repeated in a mocking voice. "Was caught with Astoria Greengrass. What a handsome couple. Both pretty and blonde, no? Their kid's gonna be an inbred, I placed _money_ on that. Anyways, Riddle was in France at the time, and he's been _itching_ to come home. I'm surprised your boy let Oliver get all handsy. Tom's awfully monogamous., not to mention bloody possessive."

"Oliver?" Tonks asked, confused. "Who?"

"That brunette that's been groping Harry all night. Though, now that I think of it, your kid looked pretty stoned."

 _"What?"_

The closet door opened with a slam.

As she rushed up the steps, intent on murder, George came tumbling after. "Spent more than seven minutes in there, Georgie," someone wolf-whistled. "Surprise you lasted a minute, with _that_ bod - "

"Shut up, Cormac," George snapped.

"I'm going to kill you!" Tonks screamed, shoving Oliver Wood off her friend. Harry was panting heavily, a bulge showing in his tight leggings. He covered his face, cheeks burning rose.

"What the hell? We were in the _middle_ of something," Oliver said, his hair disheveled and an embarrassing wet spot in his pants.

 _"Something like rape!"_

"He was into it!" Oliver defended.

Tonks growled beneath her breath, and as she reached for her knife, George quickly threw a hand out. "Take your boy," he told her. "I'll deal with Wood. Shove a beer bottle up his arse, maybe," he gave Oliver a warning glance.

Dora protested, but Harry was nearly catatonic, struggling to sit up. He was shaking violently as he fell into her, eyes fluttering shut. "It was nothing," he told Tonks, unconvincingly. "Leave him alone. I'm - I'm just tired. Let's just go home. Please."

Her gaze softened. "Come on, then," she looped an arm around him, allowing him to lean heavily against her. "You find your lab partner?"

With George and Oliver arguing and the exulted sounds of partying in the distance, they left the house. In the darkness, Tonks looked resplendent, like a pink-haired angel safely ensconcing him in her warm, soft embrace.

"Yeah," he whispered, quiet in the night. "He seemed nice."

"So did the twins," Tonks agreed, frowning. "Just so _bloody_ nice. I'm suspicious."

The boy laughed, raspy. "You think _everyone's_ suspicious. Draco, you launched a bloody investigation on when we first started dating. You seem to like Tom just fine, though. Not - not that we're dating," he said, over-defensive, as Tonks helped him onto the bike.

"Even so, he's quite monogomous, you know," Tonks told him wisely, strapping the helmet under his chin. Poor boy needed the protection more than her. If he fell off, at least he wouldn't break his neck. "How do you think he'll react when he learns about _Oliver_ _?"_

"How do you - " Harry shook his head. "I don't want to know. Come on. Let's go home. Hermione must be worried."

Tonks snorted, placing the key in the ignition. "She can smell weed from a mile off, and I'm not covering your arse as well as mine. I'll drop you off at Tom's."

"Tonks - _no."_

"I can tell Wood left you unsatisfied," she looked back, glancing incriminatory at his slight hard-on. With the motorbike vibrating beneath him, Harry couldn't help the response. He flushed behind the helmet. "You had enough of that with Malfoy, let Tommy boy take care of you. Tonight, at least."

"I _don't_ need to be taken care of - " She revved the motor and skidded through Gryffindor's yard, leaving dark tracks in her wake. "Tonks, don't you _dare,_ you meddling _witch_ _!"_

 _"Already doing it!"_ she shouted, heading toward the inner city.

* * *

 ** _To be continued . . ._**


	4. Chapter 4

**_The Dreadfuls_**

 **TanninTele**

* * *

 _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

 **IV:**

 ** _Morning_**

Tom's fingers were splayed across Harry's scalp, slowly massaging away his comedown headache.

"God, I feel like shite," the boy moaned, burrowing deeper into the bedsheets. Keeping his eyes shut helped to keep out the worse of the headache. Tom's body was refreshingly cool next to him, Harry's head on the man's lean torso. The bed was soft as clouds, and under Tom's ministrations, Harry felt some of the twinges in his head receding. "That's nice, though," he sighed, content.

"I'm glad," Tom said, amused. His voice was deep and rough from sleep, masculine and oh-so-attractive.

God-damnnit. Harry could _not_ be horny again after the night he had. Reluctantly nudging Tom's hand away, Harry lifted his head, leaning against his hand. His eyes were a dark shade of green, clouded with sleep and arousal. Harry's lips were ridiculously red, Tom noted with pleasure, from their late-night snogging.

But the words that fell from Harry's lips were anything but pleasant. He twitched a finger between them. "This was a one-time thing, you know?"

Tom blinked. "It's been two-times, technically."

"Yeah," Harry yawned, rolling onto his back. Tom immediately missed his warm weight. "That was fluke. You crawled through my window - up a fire-escape, no less - to comfort me over a break up that occurred a month ago. You're lucky you came bearing gifts from _la France,_ otherwise I'd have called the police."

"I knew you liked _le_ _parfum,"_ Tom said, pleased. He snared one of Harry's wrists, bringing it to his nose. "Beneath the smell of sex and weed, you smell faintly of lilies," he kissed the tender pulse point. "Please don't smoke again. I like you with your wits - and inhibitions - intact. Though you said some very sweet, revealing things last night," Tom teased. "I thought between the two of us, I'd have the worse daddy issues. Though I certainly don't mind you calling me your _daddy_ \- "

Harry stole his hand back, only to smack it against Tom's chest. "I did not!"

The man shrugged. "I suppose you shall never know. _Baby,"_ he crooned.

Huffing, Harry ignored the growing heat in his chest and soothed his cheek over Tom's stomach. "That still doesn't explain why you waited so long," he said, almost shy.

"I was in Paris," Tom explained, his fingers finding their way to Harry's unruly curls. "News travels slowly when my Death Eaters don't find it . . . relevant."

"Are you calling my ex-boyfriend irrelevant?"

Tom treaded carefully. "Yes?"

"Good."

His plush lips stretched into a smile. "Well, then you'll like this. While in France, I met with an old, wealthy family. The DeLacours," he cleared his throat, as though preparing for a lecture. "Their head of the family is geriatric and ill, and so I met with his granddaughter, Fleur. She's a spitfire. Fiercely intelligent, very beautiful. But there is no attraction there, rest assured, she prefers her own gender," Tom assured Harry, smoothing the boy's hair. "She informed me of her grandfather's black book. He was always very protective of his secrets, almost to the point of paranoia, but Fleur believes in trust amongst allies. A tad foolish, but it turned out favorable in the end."

"Where is this going?" Harry yawned.

"Hush, dear. I caught a peek of this elusive book, and noticed the name _'Abraxas Malfoy'._ The Malfoy family, it appears, owes quite the debt to the DeLacours," he said slyly. Harry's eyes flew open, and Tom continued idly, as though he hadn't just revealed a major plot twist. "They call themselves old money, but Abraxas was a cheesemaker in France, before he moved to London. Most of their money is the DeLacour's.

". . . Money that was put into your ex's modelling career, and his parent's massive mansion. Not to mention Lucius' magnanimous donations to 'charity' - that is, the London gambling scene - and his veritable zoo of albino peacocks."

Harry remained facing away from Tom, biting his lip, hard. "Draco was always very proud of his heritage," Harry murmured. "This would destroy him. Not to mention his family's already shaky reputation."

Tom agreed. "It's always nice to topple regimes of blue-blooded bigots. And it would secure my alliance with Fleur DeLacour. If you happened to know a good journalist, I wouldn't mind letting you take the lead on this." He pressed his lips to Harry's head.

"So generous," Harry smiled wryly. "Is it a bad thing I'm considering it? It's so _mean."_

"I happen to _like_ your naughty side," Tom mouthed behind Harry's sensitive ear. Arousal flooding them both, Harry - flexible as a wild cat - swung around to straddle Tom's stomach. The cleft of his arse - still sore from the night before - was nestled enticingly against Tom's groin. Large, slender hands automatically rose to cradle Harry's slim, pale hips. His thumbs stroked the smooth skin almost obsessively, hoping this was a precursor to a third-time thing.

Harry smirked down at him. "As for your plan, I'm sure Rita Skeeter is just _dying_ for an inside scoop from Draco Malfoy's scorned, ex-gay lover. His dirty little secret," his smirk faded, and Harry slowly laid down to press himself atop Tom, nose tickling his collarbone.

"I don't know if I'm ready for another relationship like that," he said quietly. "What we have - it's fun, amazing really, but I've known you were dangerous since I was a college freshman, watching in fear and respect as you snagged Dora's wrist as she tried to pick-pocket you at the mall."

Torn with panic, Tonks had dropped Tom's wallet and screamed 'pedophile!', gaining the attention of a nearby mall cop. Tom had talked both Dora and the officer down, offering to buy the two college students lunch in apology for 'scaring' them.

" _I_ barely tolerate her drama. I'm astounded you let her go with barely a vague threat," Harry told him seriously.

"I was merely enticed by the beautiful, green-eyed boy pleading with his friend to stand down. She was shrieking awfully loud," Tom winced in memory. "Truthfully, I wanted to ask _you_ out for coffee, but your friend was unfortunate collateral. I suppose she can be pleasant enough company when she's not trying to steal my wallet."

Harry flushed brightly, either at the compliment or in second-hand embarrassment. "Hush, you flatterer."

"You need to learn to accept compliments," Tom told him gently.

"I'm just not used to them, I suppose,"

Tom dragged Harry to his lips. "I can easily fix that, beautiful."

Harry hummed into the kiss, before breaking away. "My mouth likely tastes awful," he said sheepishly. "I don't know how you could stand it last night. Wood's mouth tasted horrid, and he only had a few drags - "

 _"Wood?"_ Tom interupted, eyes flashing. "Who is _Wood,_ and why would you associate with someone whose name sounds like a dick joke made in poor taste?"

"Oh," Harry cut himself off, rueful. "Um. He's a guy, from the frat party Tonks and I were at. He taught me how to smoke without gagging, and - well - he decided I owed him a favor."

Tom clenched his shoulders, blue eyes burning with urgency. "Harry. This boy - he got you high? And then - what, kissed you? And you said yes?"

"Not really," Harry admitted. "I told him I was with someone - you, _obviously,"_ he rolled his eyes at Tom's jealous hiss. "But he just wanted to get off - "

"You told him 'no', or implied it, at least? You clearly didn't enjoy it."

"I really didn't," Harry assured him, misreading Tom's anger as directed at him. "It meant absolutely nothing."

Tom stroked a hand down Harry's cheek, before grabbing his chin and yanking him into a possessive kiss. Harry bit out a surprised moan, before tugging away, lips wet with saliva. "Stupid boy," Tom murmured, darkly fond. "He took advantage of you, darling. I wish you'd have told me sooner, before you and I - _made love_ last night."

"That's different! You didn't take advantage. " Harry flustered. "I wanted you to . . . to take care of me."

"That's quite a tall order," Tom muttered. Harry gasped dramatically. "Kidding, of course. You trust me, don't you? Enough to tell me the full name of that boy?"

Harry frowned and tried to pull away from Tom's grasp. "I don't really remember . . . " he said uncertainly. Tom's grip on his chin tightened. "Oliver, I - I think. Oliver Wood. Happy?"

"Immensely," Tom said, urging Harry to lay his head down once more. "I've always taken care of you, Harry," he changed the topic swiftly, smoothly.

"Since I met you, I've kept an eye out for you - _and_ your kin. Don't you think dear Nymphadora would have been carted off by the police by now, if I haven't had my men erase dozens of security footage? Your ex-boyfriend, especially, would've had her arrested, if I hadn't found her little pranks _immensely_ entertaining. However, I saw her new motorbike last night," he warned Harry. "Grand theft auto is not something to look lightly upon. His licence plate is on the police watchlist, and with her speeding around, she's going to get noticed. Officially, I disapprove of her showing off like that. Unofficially, I'm proud of her. Don't tell her that."

The younger man choked a laugh. "You're not bipolar, are you? One minute, you're _scarily_ possessive and the next you're cracking jokes."

"I have a wide array of emotions," Tom said in a monotone. He tugged on a lock of Harry's hair. "You'll take care of Rita Skeeter and our little revenge plot, won't you?"

Harry tilted his head upwards, fringe falling away to reveal his jagged scar, remnants from his parents' car accident. "It's not really _revenge_ if it's justified."

"You know what would _really_ be justified?" Tom gestured down Harry's body, lithe and twining about his. The close contact and the mischievous anticipation was slowly arousing them both. "This indicating a third-time thing."

Harry considered him. "Make me breakfast, and we'll see."

* * *

 ** _Daily Prophet Newsroom_**

When Harry had dropped onto the coffee table a nine-page copy of what Tom had read in the DeLacour black book, Hermione had given him a withering glare so strong that could shatter glass. It was the weekend by the time Hermione finished proof-reading and fact-checking what she called _'Project Vindicta',_ red ink smeared plentifully across the pages.

"If you're going to publish this," she told him sternly. "You're going to do it right."

As they stalked threw the halls of the _Daily Prophet_ newsroom, crowds seem to part in front of them. Hermione, in a pantsuit, put the fear of women into men. Her hair was drawn tightly to her head, the sharp line of her trousers giving her the appearance of height. The goldenrod fabric made the dark pigment of skin even richer. Harry was quite proud of her.

"Can I help you?" An intern, holding a clipboard in coffee ground-stained hands, stepped up to them. She had hair like Hermione's and a face full of dark freckles, making her appear a love child of Ron and Hermione. And wasn't that an interesting thought.

"Hermione Granger and my client, Mister Potter," Hermione introduced sharply. "We have an appointment with Rita Skeeter at noon."

The girl glanced down at her clipboard, her eyes widening. "You're early! Yes, Ms. Skeeter has been very excited to meet with you," she babbled, gesturing them deeper into the building. "I'm Romilda Vane, her personal assistant. Coffee-fetcher, grammar-checker, occasional dry-cleaner, whatever Ms. Skeeter requires. She told me you were an honored guest, Mister Potter, and we were to maintain the utmost discretion of your interview," she ended in a hush. "Ms. Skeeter protects her sources and the _Daily Prophet_ takes their journalistic integrity _very seriously,"_ Romilda finished with not an ounce of pretending.

Hermione and Harry shared a dubious glance. "Is Ms. Skeeter available now?"

"Hm, she should be finishing her lunch," Romilda checked her watch. "Meanwhile, can I offer anything? Coffee, fruit, crackers? We have some wine coolers, as well."

The two tentatively sat at a pair of acid green leather chairs tucked into a corner. Strewn across the coffee table were copies of famous _Daily Prophets;_ Harry snagged one on the theft of a famous painting, the Fat Lady. It had gone mysteriously missing from it's place in a millionaire's home, with not a trace of evidence left behind. Odd. The theft had been around the time Tom bought his Jaguar. Harry slowly set down the paper as Romilda returned with a glass of wine for Hermione. The deep red color stained Hermione's lips, giving the appearance of a brutal cannibalism.

All that time around Tom was giving Harry some awfully dark thoughts.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Hermione asked in a soft tone, keeping an eye on the nosy journalists that bustled around them. The newsroom was laid out like a commune, with cubicles against the wall and large tables open for meetings and presentations. Clippings of paper and photos were strung from a large bulletin with thumbtacks, and a red pen was always close at hand. Computer cords were haphazardly draped across the floor, and Harry wondered who would scream if he unplugged one from the wall.

He swiped a dark curl from his eyes, taking in a deep breath. "I'm doing this for Tom. Not for me," he reminded her.

Hermione took a long, slow sip of her drink, eyeing him. When she spoke, her voice was saccharine, dark, almost mocking. "Now we both know that's not true."

"Ms Skeeter is ready for you!" Romilda appeared conveniently from around a corner, practically skipping. "This way, Mr. Potter," she gestured him along, and Hermione lingered to finish her drink.

"Liquid luck," she told him. Harry rolled his eyes.

Soon, they reached an all-glass room, the shades drawn and the sound of piano drifting through the slightly opened door. "Ms. Skeeter has a process," Romilda told them seriously. "She requires a meal of tofu, lettuce and tomato on rye bread, and Beethoven for digestion. Mozart, Sonata 11 is for writing," she added. "Upbeat and exciting, the exact way she wants to come off to her readers. It's effective. Also, for luck, we have to knock thrice before being called in."

Tucking her clipboard under an arm, Romilda rapped three times in quick succession. The music cut off abruptly, and they heard the frantic scuffling of wrappers crinkling and food being chewed.

As they waited patiently, Romilda seemed to bounce on her heels. "Would you - I'm not really supposed to ask this, but would you want to go for coffee, later?" the girl asked, peering up at Harry with determined, bright eyes.

Hermione swallowed a laugh and nudged Harry, who had gone still. When the boy stammered out a vague rejection, and Romilda appeared ready to convince him, Hermione spoke up. "He's gay, honey."

" _So_ gay," Harry choked out.

Romilda's flicked a curl out of her face, giving a cool, confident smile. "I can change that."

"You may come in!" Rita called imperiously, thankfully saving them.

Hermione escorted Harry by the elbow into Rita's office before he could make a fool of himself. As the door shut behind them, Romilda twiddled her fingers coyly.

Rita was behind her desk, the room decorated in shades of green and red, like Christmas come early. The woman was in a garish polka-dotted dress, her hair perfectly curled and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses teetering on her nose. "Harry Potter!" with a long nail, she flicked the remainder of her lunch wrapping into a rubbish bin. Standing tall on four-inch heels, the woman rushed forward to greet them.

"It's delightful to _finally_ meet you, darling," Rita crooned, before offering a long-taloned hand. Harry shook it idly, wondering where she got her nails done. "I hope Romilda treated you well, yes?"

"Yes, very well," Hermione sent Harry an amused grin.

Rita blinked, as if finally noticing the other woman. ". . . and you are?"

Hermione's grin faded to a professional blank slate. "I'm Hermione Granger, Harry's publicist."

Rita didn't offer a hand. "Of course," she said coolly, returning to her desk. She gestured to the adjacent chair, and Harry sat, leaving Hermione to hover awkwardly behind him. With the pad of her finger, Rita fixed her lipstick in the reflection of her computer screen. The woman didn't appear all that old, with natural, strawberry blonde curls and a reasonably perky bosom, but her smile seemed false, stretched. _'Botox',_ Hermione mouthed.

"Let's see. How did you want to spin this, Harry? _Scorned ex-lover of Draco Malfoy tells all!"_ She splayed her fingers. "Or, or -! _Draco Malfoy: Abusive, Cheating and Secretly Ugly?_ How is that?"

"Abusive?" Harry frowned. "That's a bit blown out of proportion, don't you think?"

"I'm just expounding on what everyone will already _think,"_ Rita elaborated. "From the pictures your friend _'MalfoyIsAManWhore69 '_ sent me," she clicked a link on her computer, displaying a poorly-lit image of Harry, asleep on the couch. The picture was taken a month ago by Tonks, clearly prepared if Harry decided to raise charges.

A dark bruise was growing beneath his eye, seeming vibrant against his pale, tear-streaked skin. Harry winced at how ridiculously _pitiful_ he looked. Not to mention, the summery blouse he wore was incredibly wrinkled.

". . . little Draco gives quite the punch," Rita said idly, watching him for a reaction.

"He threw a blow dryer at me," Harry explained, almost shameful. "But that's _not_ what I'm here to talk about."

The journalist sat up, eyes lit with excitement. "I always knew dear Draco was holding more secrets to his gorgeously chiseled chest than just a vague attraction to his co-star," Rita's red lips stuck out in a pout. "If his infidelity is what you're wanting to rant about, that's _old_ news, darling. Their chemistry has been drastically over-publicized, and that little _indiscretion_ was practically _predictable_ by the time news of Astoria's pregnancy came out, _"_ she tapped her pen incessantly against her desk, heaving a worn-out sigh. It must be horribly taxing, spinning out lies and histrionics about celebrities each and every day. Hermione stared at her in barely concealed derision.

"Indiscretion," Harry repeated, quietly enunciating the word. "Exactly," he sat up. "You already know _all_ about Astoria and Draco's relationship. But how much do you know about the _Malfoys_ themselves?"

"Oh - quite a lot, I'd think," Rita scooted forward, a conspiratorial smirk on her lips. "I've been investigating them for months now, just _waiting_ for one of them to slip up. I have quite the vendetta against Lucius Malfoy and his lawyer, Burke; he's sued our paper so many times, I'm surprised we're still in business. And, of course, he pays off our best sources to keep them quiet," Rita shook her head.

" _'Investigating'_ ," Hermione said dubiously. "What do you mean by that?"

Rita shrugged a bony shoulder. "Oh, nothing _illegal,_ rest assured," she sniffed. "But I do have a few illicit photos of Narcissa Malfoy _in flagrante delicto_ with Serena Zabini."

"The 'Black Widow'?" Harry asked, disbelieving.

"Yes, the Italian debutante _tragically_ widowed seven times," Rita nodded. "I've overheard a few conversations with Narcissa and a man I've deduced is her divorce lawyer. Seems Zabini isn't afraid of seducing men, _or_ women to finance her Italian fashion label."

Harry looked at Hermione in amazement. "Or - " the girl said pointedly. "Serena and Narcissa could genuinely be in love."

Rita dismissed the notion.

Although Harry didn't condone infidelity after the hellfire that was his last relationship, he couldn't blame Narcissa. Lucius had been a cruel man with very stringent views on everything from religion to marriage. Narcissa, unlike Lucius, had been nothing but accepting of Draco's 'proclivities', and had welcomed Harry with open arms. They had bonded over their love for fashion, and Narcissa given Harry numerous contacts in the fashion industry that would help launch a career after college.

"What we have for you, I think, is quite a bit worse than 'trouble in paradise'," Harry nodded at Hermione. With a serious expression, she removed the thick packet of papers from her purse. "I don't want to dredge up a scandal - " Harry said, and Hermione snorted behind him. "But the Malfoy family is in some _very_ deep trouble."

* * *

 ** _MALFOY INHERITANCE A SCAM?_**

 _by Rita Skeeter_

 ** _Our deeply undercover sources have discovered some potentially damaging information on the supposed_ 'vieux riche' _Malfoy family. Coming - not from the upper crusts of French society - the Malfoys were originally_ fromagers, _that is, cheese makers._**

 ** _In the 1930s, the late Abraxas Malfoy had been accused of selling contaminated cheeses, and laughed out of his small hometown nestled in the Pyrennes. Desperate for money, Malfoy turned to the generous DeLacour family for numerous loan, before ditching France for the London scene._**

 ** _Lucius Malfoy, famed philanthropist and father of Astoria Greengrass' baby daddy, Draco Malfoy, refuses to comment on the alleged unpaid loans and taxes that have carried on from his father's debt._**

 ** _This source comes directly from an individual close to the Malfoys. He claims that the Malfoys_ "May not have been aware of their grandfather's debts, but reckless spending and flamboyant lifestyle choices have done more damage than Abraxas ever caused." _He calls Narcissa Malfoy_ nee _Black an unfortunate bystander to the Malfoy's downfall, and states,_ "Though she may have had a hand in raising a spoiled, childish, irresponsible brat of a son, she has always been kind to me. Any backlash from this allegation, and any that follow, should respect her privacy as she - hopefully - attempts to separate from her husband." **

* * *

**_To be continued . . ._**


	5. Chapter 5

**_The Dreadfuls_**

 **TanninTele**

* * *

 _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

 **V:**

 ** _Forest of Dean, England_**

Humming a hearty little tone as he hiked up the trail, Oliver Wood absentmindedly stepped over a thick brown limb that lay on the forest floor, muddied boots crinkling the dry grass. There was a slight chill in the air, the wind making the towering trees wave and shed their golden leaves. Oliver's breathing was harsh and deep, his muscles tense from the effort of the hike.

If his ex-boyfriend, Marcus was here, he'd likely be forging ahead, wearing dirt and bugs like battle-armor. Oliver had loved his boyfriend, rough edges and all. Marcus had encouraged Oliver's love for surviving in the wilderness. Marcus could appreciate the thrill of the hunt, the allure of a softly humming forest, alive and free.

God, he missed Marcus. Oliver blinked rapidly and stared upwards.

The trees above him seemed monstrous, and he felt so minuscule, exploring only a smidgen of all there is to see. As he tracked a turkey vulture glide overhead, Oliver spotted a strange red kerchief fluttering in the wind. It was dirty and tattered, not far from the path, and Oliver had a feeling it was placed there for a reason. It was attached to a tree, just out of reach - Oliver craned his neck and found another, placed several paces away, leading deeper into the woods.

He began to follow them, slowly, keeping track of landmarks so he'd know how to get back.

In his distraction, Oliver's foot fell into a burrow. His ankle twisted beneath him, and Oliver tripped forward. He maneuvered his body so his pack took the brunt of it, though he still grunted upon impact. "Shit," he muttered, blinking up at the clouds. Slightly dazed, he thought of his mother.

On lazy Summer days, when he was young and she, a single mother, they would lie in the back gardens after breakfast and just watch the clouds. He would find images in them - animals, shoes, people - and test if he could split them in half by sheer force of will.

Licking his parched lips, Oliver pulled himself up, ankle twinging slightly. He wiggled it, wincing. It didn't seem broken, nor sprained - but it still fucking hurt. Oliver twisted off the cap of his water bottle, frowning in confusion - there was a crack in the bottom, and the plastic was slowly leaking. The net of his pack's side pocket was soaked in the tepid liquid. It must've cracked when he fell.

"Shit," he said again, louder this time.

The water was supposed to last a lot longer. He had packed iodine and a pot for decontaminating the stream water, but going off the path meant he had no idea where the river was. Taking a labored breath, Oliver pushed himself to unsteady feet. Tenderly, he set his foot to the ground and shifted his weight around, finding kinesthesia. The cool autumn air caressed his skin, making his long blonde hair fly behind him. Leaves crunched beneath his boots as Oliver visibly favored his right side.

He wondered if the red flags were worth it. Clearly, they led somewhere, but the forest floor was messy and hazardous - Oliver looked around, frowning. He was further from the path than he thought. He turned in a circle, placing a hand against a tree to brace himself.

"Fuck."

He was lost. But the next flag wasn't far, and they had to lead somewhere. Maybe to a river, or to a firewatch station - someplace where he could rest his foot. Limping slightly, Oliver hiked up his pack and walked, following the little red flags like they were Will 'o the Wisps.

Eventually, he came across a cave.

Something felt wrong. The forest here was quiet, with only the wind whistling in his ears. An orange bag was sitting in the grass, next to the remnants of a campfire, and the carcass of a rabbit, half the meat torn from it's bones.

Biting his lip, Oliver pulled out his phone and flicked on the flashlight. There was no service all the way out here, and he'd avoided using his phone thus far, meaning the battery was only at 85%. He limped to the cave entrance.

"Hello?"

His voice echoed through the cavern. There was nothing - nothing, except for his own laboured breathing. He stepped forward, almost gagging at the stench. There were signs of life outside, but it smelt like death in here. Pressing a hand into the wet cave wall to steady himself, Oliver flinched as he heard something rustle, like cloth or wings. His first thought was bats! - and he lifted the flashlight upwards. A blackened, rotting corpse stared eyelessly at him, mouth open in a perpetual scream.

Amber eyes glistened in the darkness as a muscled arm snuck around Oliver's throat.

"You found my little friends," Fenrir Greyback, part-time paid assassin, full-time hunter, whispered from the darkness. "Silly little lion cub fell into my trap."

Oliver's last thought was, ironically;

Marcus is going to kill me for going off the path.

It wasn't Marcus that killed him.

* * *

"Pardon me for saying it," Ron Weasley's voice broke through Harry's quiet contemplation. "But you look like you've gone through the mill. Is that . . . a hickey?"

Harry flushed, dragging up his scarf. Technically, it was Tom's scarf; soft and green, from Tom's school days. Apparently, it matched his eyes. Harry had coordinated the rest of his outfit to match, his shoes silver-tipped and his black jeans embroidered with ivy leaves.

Their relationship - if you could call revenge plots and the occasional hook-up that - was going quite well. After the _Daily Prophet, Evening Edition_ had hit the shelves yesterday afternoon, Tom had taken Harry to eat in celebration. Their conversation had began innocently enough, but Tom's long fingers wrapped around his wine stem and Harry performing a veritable fellatio on his soup spoon had Tom quickly asking for the bill. They'd taken a taxi to Tom's apartment, and all-too-soon, Harry had his back against the front door, his legs around Tom's hips and their dress shirts hitting the carpet.

Tom really, _really_ liked to use his teeth.

Harry coughed, sitting down across from Ron. They were in the library, a soft murmur of conversation filling the air, a familiar location for midday-studying. Hermione was stationed at the front desk, and Harry's gaze drifted to the corkboard behind her. An image of Oliver Wood smirked coyly at him beneath the broad letters _MISSING_ **.** He shook his head, trying not to think of it.

Ron had begun working, a vanilla folder of photographs and files open on the table. He had pushed the gruesome crime scene photos far, far away from him. Harry caught a glimpse of them.

"Could be worse," Harry stared down at the picture of some nameless, faceless victim dangling by his feet like a stalactite, dull brown hair swaying in the air. "I could be dead." The body's features had been torn away, mauled and made faceless. Were those - _bite marks?_

"A lot worse," Ron, looking ill, handed him an upside down, laminated photo of seven leathery corpses strung upside down, eye sockets eerily hollow. They had decayed at a rapid rate, encouraged by the wet and humid cave temperature.

As a 'team-building exercise', the two had been assigned a recent, unsolved case. They were given a description of the victims and their background information to comb through, to find a connection.

"God, I hate this class. This is so _gross._ " Ron said.

Harry shook his head, dragging out the official dossier. "Shall we begin? Meet John Doe, most recent victim of notorious killer known only as 'The Grey Wolf'. He was found by an anonymous tip, seventy-two hours later, and a search party was sent to comb the 4,000 acre forest - "

Ron was fast becoming bored. "I don't want to hear about the landscaping, let's get to the good stuff. You don't need to read it word for word." He plucked the papers away and skimmed it quickly. "So, the guy was found 'off the beaten path' in a bat cave, strung up and bled to death."

"That seventy-two hour wait was what killed Doe, actually," Harry said, peering at the attached photograph. "His face was the only thing . . . _damaged -_ in fact, he was the only one unidentified. Three days without water, in shock, and strung upside down like a slab of meat at the butcher's was what did him in. I wonder if the anonymous tip was _intentionally_ placed three days too late," he said quietly, almost to himself.

"Not like meat," Ron contested. "Like a bat. Some kind of fucked-up, reverse Batman. In which Batman loses every time."

Harry raised a brow. "You're comparing these - er - _bats_ to a fictional, cape-wearing vigilante?"

"Only in the broadest sense," Ron explained. "I mean, look at this one - she was identified awfully quick, from her - uh, distinctive features." A nice way of saying 'even in death, she resembles a toad'. "Dolores Umbridge. Rich. Influential. Real estate mogul, and apparently quite generous. Her last act of charity was donating a ping pong table to a homeless shelter. _Just_ the table." The two shared a disbelieving look. "She can't be _that_ ignorant."

Harry splayed out the other six victims. "Look at the others. A doctor. A lobbyist. A councilman. All well-off and fancy themselves philanthropists, while in fact . . . they were all involved in some sort of shady business. They were brought to court for misconduct at some point, but got off with their reputations unscathed."

Ron flipped through the research, frowning deeply. "Dolores Umbridge was suspected of practicing redlining - a sort of housing segregation. She would sell Latinx and African Americans shitty tenements for far more than they were worth, and refused to sell them homes in all-white communities," he snorted in derision. "She was sued for it in 1999, and reportedly stated that it was an 'old tradition' to keep - God, this is bad - ' _to keep certain communities separate'_. What a bitch. This is getting awfully _Native Son._ "

Harry continued immediately, a train of unstoppable thought. "They were blinded, their eyes gauged out. Made to be willfully ignorant, and forced to live in perpetual darkness. These people gave away their money to feel better about themselves, and their arms were wrapped around their torsos, as if in self-comfort."

"It's a metaphor," Ron whispered dramatically. Lifting up a pen, he asked the million-dollar question. "So who's the bad guy here? The killer? Or these assholes?"

"Neither. That's the point. It's all about perception. The killer thinks himself a vigilante, doing good for the wrong reasons. By hanging them upside down, blinding them, _humiliating_ them, he was declaring them as what they were; frauds. Ignorant, selfish beings, comforting only themselves."

Ron tapped the pen against his chin. "So . . . he's a hunter, thinning the population, eliminating the weak."

"Although some might criticize hunters for hurting innocent creatures, these 'victims' are anything but." Harry said darkly. These crass insight were not atypical for Harry. He tended to dissociate when faced with the macabre. It made him an effective analyst, but probably wasn't good for the psyche. Ron was more prone to crack jokes and bicker whenever things got too dark, bringing levity to otherwise uncomfortable scenarios. Ron stared at him for a moment, bemused. Harry bit his lip, wondering if he'd scared Ron off.

The redhead gave him a lazy little smile. "I'll believe it. Everyone's at fault," he shrugged. He had Harry repeat his analysis, inscribing it in scrawling, boyish handwriting. "That was easy. We should've done this partner thing more often, Harry."

Harry sent him a playful glare. "Who's fault was that, hmm?" He began collecting his things, tucking them into his book-bag. "Regardless, Professor McGonagall doesn't mind you skipping class, so long as you make up on all the work you've missed, and continue working with me on these group classes."

Flushing, Ron shifted in his seat. "I've been keeping up with the online assignments," he defended. "I just - I can't handle anything _bloody._ My brothers - Fred and George, you've met them - they used to pull pranks on me all the time as a child. They'd wear zombie makeup and creep outside my window, they'd fake their deaths with rubber knives and spill fake guts all over the kitchen floor, " Ron shuddered. "Once, they filled a pickle with fake blood, and I was _terrified_ that I'd broken a tooth. We were pretty poor, and my parents didn't have dental plans, so I was more worried about _their_ reactions than my own health. I won't even _mention_ the spiders and snakes they'd leave in my bed-sheets."

Harry was biting back laughter, covering his mouth. "Why'd you join criminology if you're squeamish?"

A freckled shoulder lifted. "I convinced myself not to be a wimp. My oldest brother, Bill, works as a security guard for some bank, Charlie is a biologist and Percy's studying to be a lawyer. I suppose I wanted a job where I could make a _difference_. I hoped police work was it. Unfortunately, our first day of class, McGonagall brought in a severed arm and had us - "

"Analyze the bruise patterns, yeah," Harry said. "They were defensive."

"I suppose she thought it'd be a good first lesson, an 'attention grabber', but I had to leave half-way to vomit in the restroom. I stuck it out for a few more weeks, but I'm clearly not made for this stuff," Ron lifted the corner of a picture, peeking at it, before shuddering violently.

"You're very good at . . . erm, tactics," Harry told him. "You're a problem-solver. So what if law enforcement isn't your thing?"

"Tactics," Ron said glumly. "What does that even mean?"

"Planning stuff, I think."

"Yeah, with seven kids in the family, mum always needed help planning meals and vacations, but we had to work around surprises and uh - spontaneous blacklisting from facilities. The twins caused a lot of trouble. But I don't _want_ to work at a travel agency or as an actuary or something."

Harry was quiet for a moment, running a finger down his lip. "You could work for the community," he offered. "You _said_ you wanted to make a difference, didn't you? As a social worker, or program director for a homeless center, you could help people who come from families like yours. Full of love, but down on their luck. Help them get back on their feet and plan for the future. You might hear some tragic stories, but that's what criminology will prepare you for, yeah?"

Brown eyes slowly back to gleam with hope. "Well, if I _do_ become a social worker, I'll always have someone in the police force to help out," he poked Harry in the arm.

"Oh, I'm not becoming a police officer. I'm majoring in fashion design," he raised a manicured hand. "Don't try to talk me out of it, I've already made up my mind."

Ron blinked. "I'm not going to talk you out of it. I can't really judge, can I? Anyways, you've always seemed - fashionable. When I saw you at the party, in - what was it - black leggings and a silk shirt, my first thought was 'this kid doesn't belong here. He belongs in some posh apartment with a rich boyfriend and a pampered corgi.'"

Harry barked out a laugh, giggling madly when someone shushed him. "It was a brocade shirt, but you're not wrong. Been there, done that. No corgi, but my last boyfriend was a model, and - well - he wasn't a model _boyfriend_ , let's say," He said wryly, picking at the papers in front of him. "He cheated on me, with a woman who's pregnant, and guess who the father is?"

Ron snorted. "Hey, my taste in women isn't all that great either. After the party, Parvati finally confessed her deep love for Lavender, and I was dropped so fast I think I broke something."

"Your heart, I surely hope not?"

"Something like that," he said glumly.

Standing, Harry patted his shoulder. "Cheer up, mate. You'll find someone. Meanwhile, the librarian's assistant," Harry nodded toward Hermione, who was dutifully shelving books. "Has been looking over at us this whole time. I know it isn't _me_ she's checking out, because I'm so flaming I'm a fire hazard," Harry sniffed primly, looking down at his nails, wiping away a spot of ink. In fact, Hermione _had_ been watching them, largely because Harry had an high-pitched laugh and didn't understand social cues to _shush._ The white lie came all too easy, but to Harry's luck, Ron seemed interested. "Has she?" Ron asked, eyes roaming down Hermione's back. He flushed as she turned suddenly, the top button of her uniform open, revealing smooth, dark skin.

"Go talk to her," Harry urged. "Ask for resources on social work. Ask good questions, build a rapport, show you're serious. She's very professional and won't react well to flirting on the job. When her shift's over, ask her on a date to see a - a documentary, or visit a museum. Do _not_ take her anyplace with meat. She's vegetarian. Do that, and you'll do great."

"You think so?" Ron repeated absently. "Wait, how do you know?"

Harry had already begun to leave, flinging the bag over his shoulder and sending Ron a salute. "I just do. _Go._ Good luck."

Shaking his head in vague amusement, Harry stepped out into the street. The air was faintly chill, and he was glad for Tom's scarf. Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward to hail a cab, but a glossy black car backed out of the parking lot and sidled in front of him. Startled, Harry stumbled a step back and watched as his startled reflection in the car's tinted window slowly rolled down.

"Harry," a familiar voice breathed out.

* * *

 ** _To be continued . . ._**


	6. Chapter 6

**_The Dreadfuls_**

 **TanninTele**

* * *

 _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

 **VI:**

Draco, with hair a sheen of obnoxious bottle-blonde and grey-blue eyes pooling with darkness, smiled tentatively at him. "I've been waiting for you. Where are you headed? Ernest can give us a ride," he nodded at the elderly driver, who gave Harry a sheepish wave. Harry, bewildered, stood very still as the door swung open.

Draco scooted back, giving him room on the leather seat.

 _This is a bad idea,_ Harry thought, even as he slid in. The voices of Hermione and Tonks screaming at him to make a tactical retreat were muddled by Draco's disarming, runway grin. _Goddamnit_ , his ex was handsome. With his mother's sharp features and his father's broad-shouldered, tall build, Draco had been primed since birth to use his beauty for evil.

When they first met, Draco had been hired to model for Harry's freshman design course's winter showcase.

Draco, with his fair complexion and dove-grey eyes had looked resplendent in warm, grey pants and a Russian Cossacks hat. Harry, inspired by the model's eyes, had hand-stitched a bluebell flower into the collar of a lightweight wrap coat. The coat had been deceptively warm, and Draco had bought the coat himself after strutting it down a spotlight-lit runway.

Harry, fresh from living with the Dursleys, was endlessly grateful for his art scholarship but still deeply unsure of his talent. When they first met, he had been too shy to look this beautiful person in the eyes. It was nothing less of a miracle that Draco liked him.

Harry had more than a bit of trouble meeting those eyes now.

Ernest began the car and drove a block before either spoke. It seemed the man had been directed to go 'round in circles until Draco got what he wanted.

" - looking good, Harry." He was saying. "Did you get a haircut? That scarf really brings out your - "

"Why are you here?" Harry broke, his hands clenched in his lap.

Draco's mouth shut with an audible _click,_ and he looked sheepish. "It's been a month since our fight, and I was hoping you'd be willing to talk," he shifted in his seat, and gave an uncomfortable laugh. "I can barely remember what we had even fought about."

"I do," Harry said quietly. "You hadn't been doing chores, because you claimed it would damage your nails,"

"I had just gotten them done with clear polish, for a photoshoot" Draco defended. "You paint your nails all the time."

"Oh, so you _do_ remember?" Harry arched a brow.

"I remember that shoot," he explained. "It was for _Tank's_ spring patterns spread. I wore plaid with floral, horrendous for my complexion - "

Has Draco _always_ talked like this?

Harry weathered on, tactfully ignoring him. "- after which you threw a hairdryer at my head, left to get drunk, and fell into the arms of your co-star; a highly televised event, by the way. You're lucky the public didn't have confirmation we were together, otherwise you'd have been labelled not just a baby daddy but also a cheating piece of _shite,"_ he ended on a sharp note. "It is your kid, isn't it? How did _that_ even happen?"

Draco winced, glanced toward the car's partition and jerked it down. Ernest, though subtle, had been glancing back at them through the rearview mirror with a stricken look.

"It was at that cast party."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "The one I couldn't attend with you because I had a late class?"

"Yes. It - It was a mistake. I was drunk, and alone, and she started flirting with me because she thought I was single . . . And I woke up in my hotel room with her panties on the floor and the shower running," he explained hurriedly. "I came home and pretended it never happened. I didn't remember much, anyways, so that was easy."

Harry remained silent, his eyelashes lowered, hiding his emotions.

"But that was months ago. I swear, I didn't cheat again. Except . . . "

" _Except?"_ Harry urged.

"Well, a - after our fight, I felt like shite. I went to a bar in the city, and happened to run into Astoria being ambushed by paparazzi. I helped her sneak away, and we ended up back at her place," he rubbed the back of his head. "I thought you and I were destined to break up, and she was there, looking so beautiful - I didn't know the paparazzi had followed us, until my publicist called the next morning and told me I was all over the news. _Astoria Greengrass' New, Handsome Beau? Co-Star Draco Malfoy Inspires Chemistry On and Off Television,"_ he quoted some of the headlines. "I admit, she's far more famous than I, so of course it was big news. I couldn't face you, and within a week you moved back with your friends. I thought that was the end of it," he mumbled. "Then, suddenly there were rumors that Astoria's pregnant."

"Is it true?" Harry asked suddenly. "Is it yours?"

"The timeline matches up," Draco admitted. "I never thought it would end up this way. Father wants me to marry Astoria. No Malfoy will be a bastard, and with all that news of grandfather and the DeLacours, an engagement will be _'lucrative for our image,'_ " he quoted wryly.

"Oh," Harry said, muted. He drew his knees up and looked out the window. They were driving past a deli shop, and Harry realized how hungry he was. "Why are you telling me this?"

Draco took in a deep breath. Harry felt a light touch on his hand, and let it stay. It was better to ignore him than show how _pissed_ Harry was. Passive aggressiveness always irked Draco in the past, and Harry hoped Draco would drop his calm, contrite act and get to the point.

Draco seemed to take his non-response as a go-ahead. "Marry me, Harry," he said quietly.

 _That_. That was harder to ignore.

"What?"

"Marry me," he repeated, unbuckling to grab both Harry's hands.

Harry attempted weakly to tug them away. "Are you attempting to propose to me in the back of your dad's car?" He asked in disbelief. "Let me rephrase, _you're proposing?_ To _me?_ I think you should be quite content in the fact that I'm neither blonde, a celebrity, or the pregnant woman your father is insisting you marry."

"I'm sure," Draco said confidently. "I don't have a ring at the moment, as I didn't know your dimensions, but - "

"Wait, no. Stop," Harry shook him off. "I'm not marrying you."

Heaving a loud, hard breath, Draco sat taller. "I'll give it to you straight. If I'm not otherwise engaged, father will make me marry her. She's _intolerable_ while pregnant, always wanting me to fetch pickles and peanut butter - "

"You seemed to tolerate her enough in the time it took to knock her up."

" - And she was _so_ angry with me when I told her I was dating someone."

 _For good reason,_ Harry thought vehemently.

Draco met his eyes. "Marry me. Please."

Harry glared, the slits of green vibrant in the dim far light. "This is horrifically unromantic. Not to mention, it's 2001. Gay marriage isn't legal. _Anywhere_."

"Oh," Draco said dully, licking his lips. "I heard Germany passed a legislation - you know what, it doesn't matter. I just - I want you to be my everything. My _only_ everything . . . I made a mistake five months ago."

"And again, a month ago," Harry interrupted, voice tight as he fought back the lump in his throat. "How can I possibly trust that you were with her only the twice? Or that you won't cheat again, on another gorgeous model, or Astoria once she's lost the baby weight and bats her pretty lashes at you? I don't hate the woman, I just hate that she makes you unfaithful, and your only excuse is that she _'was looking so beautiful'_ ".

"I've changed," the man said earnestly, wiping a strand of hair from his eyes. "Impending fatherhood scares the _shit_ out of me, and I want - I _need_ somebody by my side to support me emotionally. You're the kindest, most level-headed person I know. You're a beautiful person inside and out, and this last month without you in my life has made me realize that." Draco swallowed, and tried to meet Harry's eyes. "When the baby comes, we can have joint custody of the child - and - and - " he was becoming flustered. "I know you've always wanted a family."

Lips parting, Harry shook his head. "I- I'm still in college, Draco."

"You have a year and a half to graduate. Or you can drop out. My career is enough to take care of both of us."

"I'm _not_ becoming your trophy wife. And a child? _No._ Even if he's the sweetest, most beautiful creature in the world, I would always be reminded of the way you betrayed me. Your fear of settling down with a woman is _not_ a good basis for marriage, Draco," Harry began to lecture, channeling Hermione's unfailing logic and passivity in the face of -

Lurching forward to shut him up, Draco's lips met Harry's. They were wet. And tasted like an abundance of lip balm. Had Draco _planned_ for this? Draco wrapped his hand around Harry's waist, fingers like brands, burning into his skin. As Harry pushed against Draco's chest, making a disgusted, disgruntled noise - _he kissed like Oliver Wood, sloppy and violent, almost drunken -_ Draco bit down. Harry yelped, yanking away, and they both tasted blood.

"What the _fuck?"_ Harry brought his fingers to his bottom lip, and it came away red. He spoke loudly, so the driver could hear. "Take me back to the library. _Now._ And _never_ talk to me again," he said, voice raspy and enraged.

"But - "

"No," Harry spat. "I'm _tired_ of being disrespected. Don't pretend you love me, telling me you've changed, when you clearly love yourself more. You're not _that_ good an actor. If you loved me, you wouldn't have kept your cheating a secret, and you certainly never would have gone back to her. This - _farce_ \- " he gestured around. "Of a proposal has just convinced me how childish you are. And I'm _younger_ than you! By _years!_ Don't pretend to still be in your early twenties when I've seen your shelves of wrinkle reducers and hair-dye," he hissed, pleased by Draco's indignant flush. "Please, Draco, don't kid yourself any longer. You aren't nearly as amazing as you think. Your inheritance is a scam, your dad is a bigoted gambling addict, and your mum is cheating on him with a woman." _You must get that from her,_ he fought adding.

"You're - you're lying," Draco whispered. "I never though you'd stoop so low - "

"No. I know all this for a _fact_ because I was Rita's 'inside source', and she's been spying on your family for _months,_ just _waiting_ for a scoop like me to come along."

Draco gaped at him, betrayed. "That _was_ you _._ I thought it was your friend, Tonks; she's been harassing me, you know? She's worse than the paparazzi. Could you, you know, call off your bitch? With my bike gone and my family's source of money being questioned, all I have left is father's car," Draco gestured around, looking despondent.

 _Good._

"Good!" Harry echoed his thoughts. "Why on earth would I call her off? It's not like you're undeserving of it. I'm _pissed_ that I showed restraint with Rita, because your future lovers _deserve_ to know what an absolute _cunt_ you are. Not to mention how small of a penis you actually have." Draco sucked in a breath, insulted. "I can't _believe_ I was so unlucky to have you as my first. It's taken me _so long_ to learn what good sex feels like, which - so you know - I'm getting regularly. Yeah," Harry nodded at the man's incredulous look. "And he can actually _reach_ my prostate. I'm surprised your pecker managed to knock Astoria up with your low sperm count. It's hereditary, I know, which is why you're an only child. Thank _fuck_ for that." His words were horrifically crass, but, well, Harry was _pissed._

"Better hope the child takes after Astoria in looks, because in a few years, with your fear of excersizing and _all_ that bleach causing permanent hair loss, you'll only be useful as a hand model. Though I suppose your hand will be getting a good workout from now on, seeing as you've been rejected by both your ex _and_ the woman carrying your child."

Harry panted, and smiled serenely as Ernest pulled back up to the library.

"Fair warning, I have video proof of your shortcomings." _Literally_. "That half-arsed porn you tried to make, with me in Tonks' schoolgirl skirt and you dressed as a construction worker with your 'drill'? I'm unashamed of my cross-dressing, and Tonks has unlimited access to your Wikipedia page. Contact me again, and I won't stop her from leaking it," Harry took a step out of the car. "Oh. And congratulations. You'll make a great absent father."

He slammed the door behind him.

With his back turned away from the car, he heard the front window roll down and tensed, fearing the worse. "Good job, lad," Ernest whispered furtively, wrinkled face smiling. "Spoiled brat deserved a talking down. He and that girl have used my car as a humping ground far more than he's let on, not to mention me dropping him off at hers." Harry twitched in annoyance. "You deserve better," the man told him solemnly.

"Ernest!" Draco shouted from the back, hitting the partition. "Don't _talk_ to him, you old coot! Bring me to the grocers, I have to get pickles for that bitch," he murmured, clearly annoyed.

Ernest smiled tightly. "It was a pleasure to know you, lad. By the way, you're bleeding - quite profusely, I might add," he stared at Harry's throbbing bottom lip.

Harry wiped it away with a grimace. "Best of luck," he murmured back as the window rolled up and the car drove off.

The shades had been drawn on the library windows. Harry checked his watch, before standing straight as Hermione's figure came through the front door. With a jangle, she placed her key in the lock and spoke to him blandly. "We're closed, sir."

"It's me," Harry said tiredly. "Who wrote their number on your hand?" he thought of Ron, and hoped the boy had made a move.

"What are you - it doesn't matter." She removed gloves from her pea-coat, hiding the writing quickly. "Why are you out so late, and is that - " Hermione stepped closer to the lamp light. "Are you _bleeding?"_

"Uh. Yeah," Harry licked his lips, tasting iron. "I need a ride. I don't really want to be alone right now."

"Of course," Hermione said, with adamant understanding. She plastered herself to his side and escorted him briskly toward a busier block. Successfully hailing a taxi, they were home in minutes, the traffic sparse at nine p.m. Hermione gave him a towelette to cover his lip, promising to make him an ice pack and a plate of microwaved leftovers when his stomach rumbled.

The cab smelt strongly of weed, Harry realized, now intimate with the stench. Hermione covered her nose with a gloved hand and rolled down a window. A cool, wintry breeze soothed the angry warmth that lingered in Harry's cheeks. "Did something happen tonight?" he asked her, wanting to distract from Hermione's heated, questioning gaze. She flushed, averting her eyes. _Success_.

"N - not really," she tugged at her coat. "A few new books came in - "

"Hermione," Harry said knowingly. "We both know what I meant."

"Did you - did you _dare_ him to talk to me? I _knew_ you talked to him, had him ask all the right questions and suggest going to see that new documentary on deaf children this weekend. How else could he have been so _perfect?"_ she flustered.

"I didn't _dare_ him to do anything," Harry swore. "I wouldn't. He said you were pretty, and I thought it best to warn him before he blurted out something stupid, or asked you to a _burger joint_ or something."

Hermione winced. "I suppose I'm thankful for that. I'm not a meat-lover like you and Tonks."

Harry stared at her, wondering if she understood the euphemism. "You don't seem terribly enthused about your date. If you don't want to - "

"It's just one date," Hermione doled out a wad of notes for their driver. "I - I have to _try,"_ she said, almost to herself, as they stepped out in front of their building. "He seems perfectly nice, and funny, and red is close enough to pink - " Hermione cut herself off, as if she said something incriminatory. Harry didn't seemed to be listening as he buzzed them up. Hermione was relieved beyond reason, but not quite sure why. Her towelette now sported spots of crimson and Harry's mouth tasted faintly of cleaning product.

In their apartment, Tonks was sprawled on the coach in sweat pants and a Radiohead shirt, her hair pulled into a loose bun. The dreadlocks Hermione had painstakingly braided had become tangled, as Tonks didn't know how to properly care for them. A comb was stuck in her hair from a halfhearted attempt to brush it. Tonks had abandoned her hairdo for the night and watched re-runs of a reality television show.

"We should be in a reality show," was her greeting to them. "I'll be the incorrigible trouble maker, Hermione the designated 'motherer', and Harry the queer, quirky artist - " she finally looked up, taking in Harry's split lip and Hermione's flustered expression. "Woah," Tonks sat up, muting the telly. "What the hell happened?"

Hermione huffed through her nose. "He won't tell me," she stalked off to fetch him some ice.

Harry sat down with a grimace, feeling bruises on his sides from where Draco had held him. He hoped Tom didn't notice the marks. He supposed they were exclusive now, and from Tom's reaction to Oliver Wood - _overreaction,_ his mind supplied, reminding him of a faceless victim and a missing person's sign on the library bulletin - the older man was a possessive bastard.

"The last time you came here like this, it was all Malfoy's fault," Harry flinched at her words. Tonks backed away from where she was inspecting the cup, apologetic. "You weren't _hit_ were you? It looks like - " her eyes flashed in realization. "That rat bastard! Malfoy did this!" she shouted out to Hermione.

The refrigerator door slammed. "What? I thought he was too busy with his baby mama."

"Harry's not denying it!" Tonks pointed at him. Harry cringed, sinking lower into the couch. "What'd he _do_ to you?"

Gratefully, Harry accepted the bundle of ice and a helping of lukewarm, store-bought shepherd's pie from Hermione. "He - uh - kissed me," Harry said awkwardly around a mouthful of peas and the ice-pack at his chin. "Ambushed me outside the library in his dad's car."

Tonks turned an accusatory glare at their roommate. Hermione's eyes went wide at the unfounded hate. "That's your 'place of business'," Tonks mocked. "Shouldn't it be a safe place?"

"It's a _public library_ ," Hermione shot back. "I can't chose who comes and in out, or else you'd have been blacklisted a _long_ time ago. Besides, if I knew, I would've helped, but I was . . . otherwise engaged." Her turn of phrase made Harry's stomach turn. Engagement was the last thing he wanted on his mind.

"Hermione's got a date," Harry inserted, spearing a chunk of indiscernible meat. His nose crinkled at it. No wonder Hermione was a vegetarian. "My lab partner, Ron, asked her to the movies."

The girl in question turned red, but watched Tonks carefully for a reaction. _Any_ reaction.

"That's great," the woman said blandly. Not _that_ reaction. Hermione's heart sunk; it felt heavy in her chest. "We'll squeal over that later. Tell us what happened with the wanker," Tonks poked Harry.

Lifting her head, Hermione tried to pay attention.

"Draco never really apologized," Harry picked at his food. "Just tried to explain, and said he had changed. Draco's a horrid actor. I've seen his television show enough times - under duress, mind you - to tell when he's putting on a sob story." He shook his head, pushing away the pie, suddenly too ill to finish. "He talked about the baby, and how apparently Astoria - "

"That bitch," the two synchronized.

" - didn't know Draco was dating someone at the time. So I can only hate her a little, now," he said glumly. "She kinds of hates him, too, but Draco's dad wants them to marry for some unfathomably conservative, heterosexual reason," Harry waved a hand. "A fear of bastards, or something."

"That's funny," Tonks snorted. "Considering I'm quite sure Draco isn't his father's son. I can't _believe_ we're related," Tonks shook her head, vaguely disgusted. "I happen to like Aunt Narcissa, but I'm just saying, brain dead and underdeveloped as he is, I wouldn't doubt a bit of inbreeding was involved. Cousin Reggie _did_ always flirt with Aunty Cissa at family reunions."

Hermione and Harry inched away, as if incest was contagious. If Harry began lusting after his cousin, Dudley . . .

" _Anyway,"_ Harry pressed on, not hiding his shudder. "Draco began on about needing emotional support and a way out of marrying a woman who hates him. I suppose decided it was perfectly rational to ask a man who hates him for his hand in marriage."

Harry finished, tossing the melted ice pack aside. He let that sink in, and could practically _feel_ the daggers shooting from Tonks' eyes. "To convince me how _in love_ he is, Draco preceded to maul me like a fucking bear, using more teeth and vigor than Tom on a good day. An _extremely_ good day," Harry trailed off, touching his lip. He wondered if it was too late to visit his boyfriend. Tom liked to mark what was his, and if anything, Harry needed an erasal of this night from his memory, for good. But as for Draco . . .

"You can't tell Tom. He'd _kill_ him," Harry said, realizing how bad an idea that was.

"Let him," Hermione snarled.

"I'll help," Tonks added.

"No, _no,"_ he pushed their hands away, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "Tom can't go to jail, not now. He's - he's working on something." He winced slightly at the revelation. "Stealing something. Something big."

Hermione's eyes went large. "Art?"

"Jewels?" Tonks asked, practically vibrating in her seat.

Hermione frowned deeply, whispering _sotto voce._ "A _person_?"

Curls bounced as Harry shook his head. "The Mirror of Erised. Or, rather, what's inside of it."

Grunting, Harry reached for Hermione's laptop on the other side of the couch and booted up the internet. He zoomed in on a photo of a large, glistening gem embedded into the mirror's golden frame.

Hermione reached over his shoulder to click the attached link.

 _"'The Philosopher's Stone,"_ she began in her patented lecturing voice. " _Un_ _like it's fabled counterpart, does not, in fact, turn any metal into pure gold or grant immortality. It is, however, far more valuable than any other gem. The Philosopher's Stone is the largest ruby in existence, discovered by miners in the 15th century. The mirror was made for a French queen and used for centuries by French royalty until the reign and subsequent fall of the monarchy during Napoleon Bonaparte's time. The mirror, and it's precious cargo, was reclaimed and reconditioned by antique collectors Nicholas and Pernelle Flamel. In an act of great charity, after decades of time in a secure, temperature-regulated location, the mirror has finally been returned home to the French_ Louvre _.'"_

The girl reared her head back. "The _Louvre?_ That's impossible. You can't _steal_ from the largest museum on Earth. It's more secure than most prison institutions - "

"He's not stealing from the _Louvre,"_ Harry explained patiently, moving the computer from her wildly gesticulating hands. "He's stealing from the _Magic is Might_ exhibition in London." His fingers flew across the keys, pulling up a monochromatic webpage with the words _Magic is Might_ scrawled across the top in elegant cursive.

"The mirror is being transported there in four months," he cleared his throat and began reading. " _T_ _he exhibition showcases dozens of mythological artifacts, like the Hand of Glory, a cursed Opal Necklace, a Book of Thoth reclaimed from the Library of Alexandria - "_

Hermione was practically giddy with excitement.

"Unfortunately, it's invitation only," Harry finished with a grimace. "And not just anyone receives an invite. That's the part Tom is having _issues_ with."

"Tosh," Tonks was staring down at the computer with an expression her roommates knew well. "If he really wants the Stone, a little thing such as _permission_ should never be a challenge," she stated with avarice. "I want in."

Harry blinked, not sure why he was surprised. "Um, well, Tom already has his hands full with the Death Eaters, Tonks - " he began.

"Doesn't matter. I'm better than all of them. I'm not just some trigger-happy kleptomaniac, Harry, I happen to have something called dignity. And I will forever hate myself if I don't get my hands on that Phallocratic Stone, or whatever - "

"Philosopher's," Hermione corrected. "You won't like what phallocratic means."

 _"Hermione,"_ the other girl said, suddenly in her face, eyes imploring and lips quirked. "Darling. You _love_ the idea of attending that _Magic is Might_ exhibition. It's practically _made_ for you."

Hermione looked stricken at their close contact. Tonks was leaning over her, hands on Hermione's wrists, holding her down gently. Her breasts were alarmingly pressed into Hermione's, the warmth and rhythm of her heartbeat bringing her to speechlessness. All that pale skin, and the flowery smell of Tonks hair was too much.

"W - well," Hermione stammered, wiggling beneath her. "If I was invited, sure, but I don't condone -"

"I'll get you an invitation," Tonks swore. "We'll put you in a pretty dress that shows off your beautiful curves - courtesy of Harry, of course - and you'll distract all the security guards while I pluck - " she reached into the air, eyes alit with inspiration. "The Stone from the Mirror right under their noses. It's perfect." Hermione, reeling from Tonks calling her 'beautiful', nearly missed Harry's response.

"It's going to be a little more complicated than that," Harry said, amused. "I suppose . . . if you're really determined to help out, I can ask Tom to let you in on his task force. His Death Eaters _are_ ridiculously incompetent, he's always complaining about them - "

Tonks pulled away with a triumphant grin, fixing her top.

Dazed, Hermione placed a hand on her rapidly pounding heart. "What - what did I just agree to?" she asked, breathless.

"Nothing good," Harry assured her.

* * *

 ** _To be continued in_ The Merciful **

**Estimated time of next update: Monday, July 16th.**


	7. Chapter 7

**_The Merciful_**

 **TanninTele**

* * *

 _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

 **I:**

 ** _Three Years Ago_**

The mall, Tonks decided to herself, was the best place to wrangle fools. Black Friday shopping was coming to an end, and shoppers were scrambling to find Christmas gifts at half-price. Their coats and shopping bags were all-too easy to slip a hand into, and Tonks could easily hide in the hoards of bystanders.

She took a break from people watching to take one last sip of her milkshake.

"Ice cream," Tonks said seriously. "Is delicious no matter the season."

She sat at a sticky table beside Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, dragging her finger through a pile of melted whipped cream. A struggling bug was caught in the sticky mixture, and Harry watched in disgusted fascination as Tonks crushed it under her thumb.

He carefully removed the spoon from his mouth and patted at his lips. "You've ruined my appetite," he told her. "And this knickerbocker glory cost half my paycheck."

"Not my fault minimum wage is a bitch," Tonks flapped a hand. "But don't worry. Dessert's on me. Or, rather," she grunted, leaning back to snatch the purse of a distracted elderly lady, swinging over the back of her chair. The poor woman was trying in vain to spoon-feed ice cream to a belligerent grandchild. She removed a handful of pound notes and let the purse swing back. "This generous woman."

Tonks shoved the money into his hand. "Here's your money back, love."

"Stealing from the geriatric now?"

"Don't lecture me, you're enabling it."

Frowning deeply, Harry reluctantly pocketed the cash and tossed his garbage.

He'd recently gotten a job at _Lockhart's Lusty Looks,_ a retail store with a shitty owner and even shittier pay. He needed all the money he could get.

Scholarships could only go so far, and as for meals and residency, Harry was lucky an older student, Hermione Granger, had needed help paying rent.

The girl was incredibly disciplined and going for her master's in journalism, although she was only a sophomore now. Harry had been in both fear and respect of her when they first met. Incredibly disciplined, she was the type to say 'let's go out for a drink,' and, indeed, get only a singledrink. She liked to surround herself with books, rather than people, and wasn't the chatty sort. Harry could sympathize.

Out of all the interviews Harry had attended, she hadn't seemed the slightest bit bothered by Harry's sexuality. In fact, that had been her selling point; knowing that he wouldn't grope her in her sleep.

Hermione wasn't terribly impressed with Harry's acquaintance to Tonks, and respectfully rain-checked from their outing to the nearby Hogsmeade Mall. At this point, Harry almost wished he bowed out as well.

"Oh," Tonks bounced toward a store, darkly lit and filled with band t-shirts. "Can I?" She already owned about two dozen t-shirts, and Harry yearned to take a pair of scissors to them. But, whatever kept her occupied.

"Be my guest," Harry said in amusement. "I need some fabric for the upcoming winter showcase. It's all fur lining and dyed wool - you'd bore yourself to death. Meet back here?"

Tonks flapped a hand in goodbye and disappeared into the shop. With her hair, painted in streaks of blue and black, and torned jeans, she fit right in.

Harry flexed his fingers around the roll of notes in his pocket. It wouldn't hurt to splurge on a few more expensive fabrics this season. Straightening his back, Harry walked confidently into a sewing shop, avoiding the gaze of a group of Dudley-like boys eyeing him.

The boys - dressed in overlarge, sagging pants and clinking chains - had been snickering at Harry and Tonks for the past hour. Harry knew their type. Upper-class, spoiled brats attempting to connect with their inner 'bruv'. They were college drop-outs, teenage baby daddies and - Harry winced as they shouted a slur at his back - wildly homophobic.

Last Harry checked, he was still a flaming homosexual. His tight jeans and lace-lined, peach-colored shirt practically painted a target on his back.

Grimacing, Harry unwound the winter coat from his waist and covered his shirt. It was a pity, really; it was one of his favorite shirts, bought with his first paycheck when he finally left the Dursleys. The fact he bought it with an employee's discount at _Lockhart's Lusty Looks_ ,which mostly sold lingerie and feminine wear, probably only worsened his situation.

Safe inside the sewing shop, Harry busied himself amongst the rolls of fabric and boxes of buttons. He trailed his fingers across a red plaid. It reminded him of fire-places and pine trees.

"Plaid is out this season," a woman, dark-skinned and tall, told him firmly. She wasn't an employee, as she was bereft of the unfortunate beige apron, and instead was wearing a mauve pleated suit. The collar was wide and pointed, brushing against her curly dark hair. She was astonishingly beautiful, wearing little makeup except for a light bruising of purple eye-shadow.

Harry gaped at her in recognition.

Her plush lips smirked. "Your peach blouse, meanwhile, is quite in-style. Although I can tell it's meant for someone with smaller shoulders." She flicked a sharp nail at his collarbone.

Harry flushed, dropping the plaid instantly. "W - well, perhaps I'm bringing lumber-jack back. It's for my winter showcase."

"Don't," the woman said flatly. "God knows why, but Prada is quite enthralled with beige this season." From her shopping bag, she removed a sketch palette decorated with pale, wintry squares of fabric. "For your showcase, try neutral colors, and - if you're confident in your needlework - show off with some embroidery."

Considering the aisles before him, Harry pointed out a dove-grey, almost blue fabric. "That'd make a lovely coat," the woman told him, nodding in approval. "Lightweight, but line it with fur, and it'll be exceptionally warm."

"Thank you," Harry said earnestly. "Madam Zabini, I'm a big fan. I'm so sorry about your husband - "

Serena Zabini, designer and recent widow, waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, he's just one of many. Nothing like a bit of grief to inspire art," she told him breezily. "I was supposed to meet my son for lunch, but my attention was diverted by the store owner's garish uniform." Zabini went on her toes to peer through the store window. "Ah, my son has arrived - and has flocked to his little _friends,"_ her nose crinkled. Harry watched a dark-skinned boy dressed in ripped pants and a football jersey slap the back of a Dudley doppelgänger.

"That's your _son?"_ Harry gaped, before closing his mouth, realizing that may be offensive. "I mean - "

"I know. He has inherited his late father's sense of style," the woman said grimly. "Let's just say I do not miss the man. Now, I best be off before Blaise gets into any trouble. Luckily, his friends are . . . _easily_ distracted." Fixing her bosom, Serena threw her head back. "Best of luck with your showcase, _darling,"_ If Harry wasn't incredibly gay, her sharp grin and seductive purr would turn him.

Harry hugged the fabric to his chest and watched in awe as she clicked away. He wasn't alone. The gaze of numerous men and women followed her through the mall, including a man that nearly dropped his Blackberry. The woman winked at him.

Harry grinned gleefully to himself, and - when he was done collecting all his fabric - approached the counter. The bored-faced employee took a pair of shears to the fabric and cut him a few yards. While she was distracted, Harry tentatively snuck a hand towards a pile of glinting buttons and beads. He snagged two small, aquamarine stones and slipped them into his pocket. They'd make a gorgeous pair of cuff-links.

He winced at himself.

 _Jesus_ , he rubbed his face, before placing the stones back on the counter. He dolled out the required cash. _Tonks was rubbing off on him._

"Thank you," he told to the cashier.

Shopping bag in hand, Harry was incredibly amused to see the chavs entirely enthralled with Madam Zabini's breasts. Serena curled a nail under her son's chin and gave him a small peck on the cheek, before beckoning him towards a deli.

Harry's gaze drifted to the man on his Blackberry, brow furrowed as he argued with someone vehemently. The man was reasonably handsome, older than Harry by less than a decade, with shortly trimmed hair, an aristocratic jaw and hazel eyes that seemed red in some lights, green in others, and blue when reflecting the mall fountain. His grey chesterfield coat over a thick turtleneck, his glimmering wristwatch and bulging pockets betrayed immense wealth. A vast security risk that Harry's friend noticed immediately.

"Tonks," Harry hissed to himself. " _Don't."_

The girl had made him her target. Her hair pulled into a new beanie, making her seem meeker, less noticeable, Tonks bumped very purposefully into the man. Her hand disappeared into his pocket.

As Harry blinked, a long-fingered hand curled around her wrist and yanked Tonks away.

" - hold on a moment, Crabbe," the man said absently into his cell-phone.

Wide-eyed, Tonks tried to pull away, in effect dropping his nice leather wallet. A number of coins clinked onto the linoleum.

"I've got a little pick-pocket to deal with." He snapped the phone shut.

Fear flashed across Tonks' face. Harry rushed forward, hugging his bag to his chest. "Let go of her," he demanded, voice echoing.

A furrow formed between the man's brows. He tightened his grip. "This girl - "

\- took matter into her own hands. Thinking fast, Tonks screamed. _"Pedophile!"_

The man dropped her like he'd been burnt, and the gaze of nearly everyone darted over to them. Tonks was really putting on a show, fake tears glistening in her eyes, as she prepared for another shout. "Creep! Pervert!"

 _"Oh my god,"_ Harry snatched her by the sleeve. "Tonks, come on - I'm sorry about her, she's clearly mentally unstable, but you shouldn't have grabbed her like that - "

"Is there a problem here, sir?" A mall cop, dressed to the nines in a blue uniform, approached them with a scowl. His mustache was enormous, and Harry would've been distracted by it, if his best friend wasn't currently jabbing a trembling finger at the other man.

"He - he - he tried to _touch_ me," she forced out. "He grabbed my arm, and - "

"That is _not_ what happened," the man tried to contest. "Not precisely."

Arching a bushy brow, the cop nudged his shoe at the fallen wallet. "Well, then what _did_ happen here, hm?"

"He tried to _pay_ me for sex," Tonks spat.

Everyone blanched. "The _nerve_ \- " the man whispered.

Harry, exasperated, pulled on Tonks' hand. "Stand down, Dora, let's just _go."_

She brushed him off, building up steam . "And when I screamed, he dropped his money. I will not be _bought!"_

"Don't fret, lass, I'll take care of this," the cop laid a hand on his club, and attempted to tower threatening over the other man. This was rather ineffectual as he was shorter than even Harry.

"No, no," the man raised his hands. "No need for violence. I'm sorry for scaring you," he soothed, bending down to collect his wallet. He slipped the coins inside, fingers deft. Harry saw the glint of a gun at his belt and took a large step back.

"I was on the phone with a friend discussing - ah, _hiring_ an exotic dancer for his bachelor's party," he explained to the cop. With the perfect amount of embarrassment and candor in his tone, the lies slipped from his tongue with barely a hesitation. "This young lady bumped into me, and she must have misheard . . . It was all a big misunderstanding, you understand."

"Ah," the cop narrowed his eyes, "Is this true, lass?"

Tonks sniffled, her eyes flicking down to the man's gun. She seemed a bit pale. "I might have overreacted," she stated, resiliant. "But . . . I demand retribution for the emotional trauma I've been dealt."

 _What ever happened to 'I will not be bought'?_

Harry covered his mouth with a hand, fighting a hysterical laugh. She was _insane,_ and playing these two like a damn fiddle.

The man breathed through his nose as if repressing a swear. "Well," his eyes flickered to Harry and the expectant mall cop. "I'd be delighted to treat you and your friend to a meal in . . . _apology_ for this _misunderstanding_ ," he bit out, and checked his watch. "I have a reservation for lunch at _Pomona's Sprouts_ in a half hour, if you'd like to join."

Tonks nodded approvingly. "We're hungry, aren't we, Harry?"

Harry swallowed tightly under the man's dark gaze. "I actually just ate," he murmured, before raising his voice. "But it'd only be polite to accept. Considering the circumstances."

The cop nodded, satisfied, and the man smiled tightly.

" _Excellent,"_ he purred, and unwarranted, a shiver went down Harry's spine.

* * *

 _ **Present Day**_

 _Pomona's Sprout_ was mildly expensive but had a large, vegan-friendly menu. Hermione, grateful for this fact, ordered a lettuce wrap while Ron tried the chickpea soup. As she delicately took a bite of the wrap, Ron watched in amazement. The word 'rabbit food' was on the tip of his tongue, but he bit it back, taking a swallow of his soup. It was as terrible as he expected. Ron grimaced.

The meal was awkward, quiet, as Ron frantically thought of conversation starters. "So, uh, the movie - " he began, just as Hermione spoke.

"How is your - "

Ron cut off with a soft laugh, and Hermione flushed. "The movie," she latched on eagerly. "Was brilliant, if I do say so myself. You know, I took a course on videography, and - "

Ron fought to pay attention, nodding along to her excited chatter. The documentary they'd seen in the mall theater was on the migration of winter birds; Ron had damn near fallen asleep during it, while Hermione seemed deeply involved. He'd kept himself awake by watching her reactions. An hour and a half in the dark allowed Ron to memorize her silhouette. A very pretty silhouette, mind, but her front teeth were _huge_ and her hair blocked the view of those seated behind them. Ron's gaze drifted down to her overbite, between which a chunk of lettuce was stuck. He gestured upwards, interrupting her.

"You've - er, sorry, but you've got a spot of lettuce, just there," he told her.

Hermione's cheeks darkened and she lifted a hand to hide her face. "Don't cover up," Ron said quickly "It's fine. Have I told you that you look pretty today?"

Hermione glanced down at herself self-consciously, brown eyes drooped. She wore a simple grey dress and black flats, resembling something you'd wear to church. Hermione tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. "Thank you," she said softly. "You - you look better."

"Better? Compared to what?" Ron asked in faint amusement.

She shrugged lightly. "You wore sweatpants and a stained shirt when you asked me out,. At least you clean up nice," Hermione picked up her lettuce wrap again. "You know, I'm really grateful that you took me out for vegetarian food. Not everyone is willing to make such a sacrifice," she said wryly. Hermione gestured to his soup, mostly untouched. "Sorry about that,"

Ron gave a short laugh. "Don't be. It's nice to try new things, even if it tastes like vomit. At my frat, all we eat is vension and junk food. I appreciate sharing a meal where Cormac isn't shouting at me from across the table to 'pass the grits!'," he whisper-shouted.

Hermione laughed.

"I'm really glad Harry introduced us," Ron beamed at her. "He lent me my outfit, too. It's a bit small."

"I can tell," Hermione's gaze lingered on Ron's biceps. He wore a tight, dark blue dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal freckled arms dusted with almost invisible hairs. "What color did he call your shirt?"

"' _Cobalt blue_ '," Ron quoted. " _'With a mandarin collar.'_ He's a riot."

Hermione smiled fondly. "You should meet my other roommate. Nymphadora Tonks?"

"The - ah - pink haired girl?" he queried. "We've met in passing. She spends a lot of time with my brothers." He played with his soup, and spoke absently. "I wonder if they're banging."

The girl blanched at his comment, a pang of hurt slicing through her chest. Ron seemed to realize his crassness, and hurried to apologize. "Er - I mean, she's always over at Gryffindor House, holed up in their bedroom. It's just suspicious, as all. I'm sorry. You didn't know?"

"I - " she stammered, grateful for the sudden beeping of her phone.

Hermione scrambled for it, flicking open her purse and hiding her stinging eyes. _It's perfectly alright for her to date,_ Hermione told herself vehemently. _You're on a first date now, for god's sake._ Clearing her throat, she opened a text from Harry. It was succinct and brief, betraying Harry's panic.

 _Emergency at Tom's._

"I have to leave," Hermione blurted. She took a few quick bites of her food, before wiping her face. "There's an emergency - I'm sorry to cut this short," she said apologetically, pushing away from the table.

"Oh," Ron said in surprise. He waved for the check. "Do you need any help? A ride?"

Hermione thought of Tom's _'ultra, top-secret, off the grid headquarters',_ as Harry once described it. She doubted Tom would be very happy to see this particular Weasley dropping her off at the front doors. "I can take a taxi."

Tossing money onto the table, Ron hurried after her. "No one's hurt, right?"

"What?" Hermione was rapidly texting Harry, struggling to pull on her coat. Ron grabbed it and helped her with the sleeves. "No, no. It's just a work thing," she assured. "But they need me immediately."

"At the library?" his brow furrowed.

Hermione closed her eyes. She kept walking at a quick pace. Her date was alarmingly perceptive - which, she supposed, wasn't so odd considering he was studying criminology. Ron dogged after her, right at her heels, as they left through the mall's sliding doors. As Hermione beckoned for a cab, Ron shifted back and forth on his feet, debating whether or not to kiss her goodbye.

"You aren't - you're not just trying to get out of a bad date, are you?" He asked, hazel eyes lowered. "Once, Cormac had me call him, pretending there was an 'emergency', when he wanted to ditch his blind date. He thought she was 'too gothic', but when I picked him up she just seemed sad - " he blathered.

Hermione stopped him with a gentle kiss on the cheek. "You did great," she said encouragingly. "More than great. I just really have to go. I'll - I'll call you."

Ron struggled to grab his phone. "We haven't exchanged numbers - "

The taxi pulled up behind Hermione and she reached back to open the door. " _Later_ , Ron. You know where I work!" she slid in, and waved at him. "Thank you for the movie, and the food!"

Ron raised a meek hand as the cab screeched away. He let it drop and looked down at the cobalt shirt, seeing a faint stain of chickpea soup on the lapel. Harry would need it dry cleaned before Ron returned it.

 _That went well,_ he thought, sighing. _I think._

* * *

 ** _To be continued . . ._**


	8. Chapter 8

**_The Merciful_**

 **TanninTele**

* * *

 _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

 **II:**

 _The Hog's Head,_ a bar posing as the Death Eater's front, had a seedy entrance but a vast storage cellar underneath where Tom and his Death Eaters plotted their 'nefarious schemes', as Harry once described it. A good number of their deals went down under the barman, Aberforth's, protective watch.

It was _supposed_ to be a neutral ground, but the moment trouble arose, Tom's men would swarm the joint. A bullet hole could be seen in the _Odgen's Old Firewhiskey_ mirror beside Aberforth's counter. The broken glass and cracked fracture told an untold story; when it had appeared one day without explanation, the bar patrons had suspected a haunting and urged the amused Aberforth to hire an exorcism.

The truth was that a sniper had once tracked Tom down as he exited _The Hog's Head_ and attempted to execute him. George Weasley had, luckily, been in the way, jabbering on about a prank involving electrical wires and door knobs _à la '_ Home Alone'.

From that day on, Tom and his more recognizable Death Eaters used the complicated back entrance; a passage dug through the wall behind a portrait of a girl they called simply 'Sister A'.

The passage lead to the torched-out bottom of an empty dumpster. No more than one person could exit it at a time, but Sister A had protected the Death Eaters more than once when a hasty getaway was required.

Hermione, thankfully, was allowed to use _The_ _Hog's Head_ entrance.

Soft murmurs erupted as she entered. Lifting the collar of her jacket to hide her face from the leering patrons, she sat tentatively at the bar. The heat was blasting and the tavern smelt of whiskey and sweat. The stool creaked perilously under her as Hermione waved down the barman. Aberforth, with his wizened features and suspicious stare, asked for her order.

He was cleaning a dirty cup with an already stained rag, essentially just smearing around the dirt. Hermione wrinkled her nose. That, certainly, was a health code violation, but she wasn't here to drink.

"Just, um, some tap, please." She slid forward a fake golden coin, engraved with a serpentine animal. Heat cascaded over her back, and she felt the distinct sensation of being watched. Glancing around surreptitiously, she shook it off.

Aberforth inspected the coin keenly, turning it around in his hand, before nodding shortly and passing it back.

"The bathroom?" She asked, voice strangled.

With a jerk of his bearded chin, he directed her towards a hallway. Hermione jumped from the stool so fast she nearly tripped, and a man wolf-whistled at her. Hermione flushed brightly and disappeared behind a corner.

She was lucky no one approached her to buy her a drink. Tonks' first day, the girl was ambushed at the door and propositioned three times - twice by the same lesbian hag.

Clucking her tongue, Hermione made a left instead of a right at the hall. She descended a set of creaky stairs into a wine cellar, the walls lined with barrels and kegs. Empty bottles were set onto a table beside a tube and a funnel. The barman, she'd learned, labeled and resold watered down vodka in recycled bottles to drunkards for the same price.

Well, it was more water than liquor. "They're drunk," Tom once told her. "They can't tell the difference."

In exchange for residency, Tom kept quiet about Aberforth's crimes and Abe turned a blind eye to the numerous shady patrons leaving for the bathroom and never returning.

A large metal door was nestled between the racks of wine. It was soundproof, Hermione suspected, as all was silent except for the creaking of floorboards above head. Unsure of herself, Hermione rapped thrice on the door, the rhythm for _'Sly-ther-in'_ \- the Death Eater's alleged founder, although they went by another name back then.

There was a long pause before someone got off their arse to open the door.

"Hermione," Tonks' bright face met her. Unwittingly, Hermione smiled back. "How was your _date_?" Tonks asked her teasingly, grabbing Hermione by the elbow.

"Oh," she said, throat tight. She forced a breezy tone. "It was fine, we saw a movie - "

"Good, fantastic!" Tonks rushed her into the room. "I'm happy for you. Now, we've got a bit of a crisis."

Hermione blinked at the sight of twins and a few other Death Eaters sitting around a computer screen, watching a televised arrest. A veritable snake pit of cords and cables were tangled together, leading to the command center. The computers were running numerous programs; tracking operations, recording select conversations and monitoring the going-ons of _The Hog's Head._

Harry, wearing black pants and a baggy sweater - not his own, Hermione noted - was leaning against a wall, watching Tom stalk through the room.

"Oh, great, you're here," Harry noticed Hermione, and nodded at the computer screen. "Look at this mess."

Hermione leaned forward to watch a stout, spiky-haired man screaming and shouting as he was forcibly removed from a chapel surrounded by gravestones. In the corner of the screen, a sobbing family in black watched as he broke free from the police to snarl at them. Hermione tipped her head curiously. "Who is this?"

"Peter Pettigrew," Tom spat, shoes clicking against the the musty concrete floor. "A spineless, lowlife _coward."_

"The British archaeology guild certainly didn't think so when they awarded him that Order of Merlin, first class," Harry said wryly.

"He would've been _perfect,"_ Tom bemoaned, slumping into an empty chair. "Just the right amount of reclusive and susceptible - "

"To be manipulated in giving up his invite," Tonks finished in a near perfect impression of the older man's drawl. "We've heard it already, stop your whining."

Hermione flinched, expecting Tonks to be reprimanded, but Tom remained quiet as Harry soothed a hand over his hair.

Finally, as they watched the computer, Peter Pettigrew was shoved into the back of a police vehicle. "He tried to rob the grave of Princess Helena last night," Tonks told Hermione quietly. "They say he's ill, poisoned by some mold spores from all that time holed up with antiques - "

"But who _is_ he?" Hermione asked.

"He was this famous young archaeologist; like a little rat, sneaking into vaults and digging up their secrets. He supposedly found an ancient golden sculpture of the Holy Grail," Harry told her, _sotto voce._ "Hence the Order of Merlin, First Class. Pettigrew hasn't found anything exciting since the Grail, but he - and one guest - were invited to the _Magic Is Might_ exhibit due to his award. Now with his arrest," he gestured at the screen.

"The invites will be rescinded. Thus Tom's hissy fit."

Said man bared his teeth at Harry, who returned a soothing hand to his hair.

"So what now?" Hermione asked, frowning. "What do you need me for?"

"What I _need,"_ Tom stressed, leaning forward to exit the video. "Is access to the invitee list, which I currently have George and Tonks on now. You'll be attending the exhibit as a _guest_ of one of those invited. The question is. . . _who?_ _"_

Tonks perked up. "Right!" she spun around to sit beside George. "The list isn't public, but from what we've gathered on social media, a large portion of their invitee list is made up of the exhibit's more _generous_ benefactors. The rest, like Pettigrew, are famous archaeologists and researchers. But they're simply too volatile. We'll have to go the other route."

Tom nodded, agreeing.

"There's a page on their website giving thanks to their contributors," George butted in, scrolling down on a separate computer.

Hermione read it aloud.

 _"Many thanks to: Amos and Reba Diggory, Samuel Fawcett, Isobel MacDougal, Stanislav Poliakoff, Marco and Serena Zabini - "_

Harry jerked forward. "Zabini," he echoed, glancing at Hermione. "That's the woman - "

"The woman courting Narcissa Black, exactly," she said.

Fred clicked her name. "It says . . . that Marco was a prolific donor before he passed away, and in his memory, Serena has donated thousands to the archaeological guild on the anniversary of his death each year."

"Marco was her first husband, I believe. The father of her son," Harry said. "Perhaps she's nostalgic. Do you think she'll have been invited?"

"The Black Widow is practically a historical figure herself," Tom mused, rocking forward and back in his desk chair. "Of course she'll be invited. What's important, however, is who she's invited as her _guest."_

Hermione sent a blithe smirk at Harry. "Oh, we know the answer to that, don't we, Harry?"

Tonks sighed. "I thought - rather _hoped_ youwere _done_ with the Malfoys."

Harry ran a hand through his hair, tugging at his bangs. "Me too, Dora. Me too."

* * *

 ** _Malfoy Flat, London_**

Gritting his teeth, Draco scrubbed at the large pile of dishes filling the sink. His sleeves were soaked in water and suds were bubbling over the rim. He clearly had not a clue what he was doing, but it was better to do the dishes than deal with Astoria and her obnoxious sister.

"There ought to be staff for this," Daphne told Astoria, watching as Draco ran the sponge over a particularly stubborn spot. She raised her voice. "Or did you knock _them_ up too, Draco? Maternity leave is a blessing, I've been told."

Closing his eyes, Draco seethed. Daphne and her beloved girlfriend, Pansy, were visiting from their stay in Havana. They returned goregously tanned, half-way fluent in Spanish, and with a healthy amount of distaste for the boy that 'defiled' Daphne's little sister. Daphne wasn't truly that upset with him; she just liked to rile the boy up, and Pansy was there with popcorn to watch.

"How long are you staying, again, girls?" he asked, forcing pleasantry. He wiped his hands on a towel and turned towards the couch.

"Until the baby is born, of course," Pansy patted Astoria's stomach, only for her hand to be batted away. Astoria didn't like to be _touched._ Pansy continued without pause. "And then we're stealing your girl away for an extended vacation. God knows she'll deserve the rest after labor. I hear it's _arduous,_ but I wouldn't know," Pansy said delightfully. "One of the perks of being in a loving, lesbian relationship; no expectations for procreation, isn't that right, Daphne, dear?"

Daphne rolled her eyes. The older Greengrass sister resembled her sister almost down to the freckles on her nose; but where Astoria dressed up for the occasion in a flowing pastel dress, pearl jewelry, and her make-up heavily caked, Daphne was proud of her freckles and rosy cheeks. She was stuck in the nineties, dressed in faded jeans, a striped turtleneck and her chin-length hair left in it's natural curls. The Greengrass sisters were infamous child actresses, starring in a sitcom about - Draco suspected - raising hellish children.

"How far along are you, Tori?" Daphne leaned in close to her sister. "You're looking bigger than I expected."

"Six months, now," Astoria's pale pink lips twisted in an entirely unattractive grimace. "And that's the maternity clothes, making me look huge. They're just so _baggy._ Unflattering."

Daphne frowned, pinching the fabric. "Where'd you get them?"

"Oh, _Narcissa_ gave them to me," Astoria sent a heated glare at Draco's tense back. She lowered her voice. "That woman hates me."

Pansy gasped, loving a good gossip. "Did she say something to you?"

"No," Astoria huffed. "Not directly. It's all very underhanded. It's in the way she _looks_ at me - like I'm dung under her nose. I wonder if she always looks like that? Perpetually pompous?" she did a rather accurate impression of the elder woman, much to Pansy and Daphne's giggles.

With a splash, Draco tossed down his sponge. _"Do not_ talk about my mother that way!"

"Why not?" Astoria shot back. She crossed her arms. "It's true, isn't it? She doesn't like me."

 _"No_ one likes you, when you're like this," the boy grumbled.

Daphne and Pansy caught each other's eyes, each gleaming with varying degrees of amusement and irritation. "Well," Pansy said delicately. "Thank you for our meal, that was delicious."

"It was just take-out," Astoria dismissed, reaching in vain for the telly remote, sitting on the other chair. When no one moved to help her, she gave up. "What sort of foods did you eat in Cuba?"

"Authentic, of course. The culture and people were extraordinary. I have notebooks full of writing, it really was a great experience."

Pansy was a screenwriter, known for one or two independent films, and was the younger of the couple. Her cocoa skin made her short, inky hair seem even darker, highlighted by red lips and a nose ring. She was in some traditionally Cuban dress, but the hem of it barely brushed her thighs.

"We're thinking of living there, aren't we, darling?" As she reached over to brush a kiss to Daphne's cheek, her skirt rode up and Draco couldn't _help_ his eyes wandering. He turned his head over his shoulder and ran his tongue across his teeth.

Astoria noticed immediately and her cheeks flushed red. "Draco! Show some decency, she's _taken,"_ she screeched, tossing a throw pillow at his back. "Much like _you_ were when we met."

"I thought we agreed not to mention that?"

"I'm allowed to still hold a grudge, aren't I?"

"Are _you_ _two_ even together?" Daphne stared between them in amazement. "You're fighting like cats and dogs."

Draco sent her a heated look.

"I'm just asking for a friend," she defended herself.

"No, dear, just look at them," Pansy said, playing along. "They _despise_ each other."

Neither Draco nor Tori protested that statement. Astoria, still irritated, arched a perfectly sculpted brow, while Draco just huffed and returned to the dishes.

"I'm serious," Daphne said enthusiastically to Astoria. "Blaise Zabini - that boy you shacked up with at my beach-house party this summer - was wondering if you were single."

The other girl blushed, pleased. "Was he really?"

"Yes. Come to think of it, my beach party _was_ about six months ago . . . " Daphne trailed off, brows furrowing.

Astoria spoke quickly, interrupting. "Blaise was a lovely boy, I do hope - "

"Don't kid yourself," Draco snarled from the sink. The suds on his face rather negated the impressive baritone. "Why would anyone want to be with you like _this_?"

 _"Pregnancy,"_ Astoria hissed, shifting from coy and cute to a vicious beast in seconds. Her voice trembled faintly. "Is quite _attractive_ to some, thanks."

"Not to me, _thanks,"_ he mocked.

Pansy reared her head back, looking between the two. "Honestly? This entire time you've lived together, you haven't - you know?" she made a vague gesture with her hands. "I'm gay, I don't know the mechanics. But don't you two share a bed?"

"I make him sleep on the couch," Astoria said smugly.

" _This_ couch?" Daphne asked, nose wrinkling. "Is it _clean?"_

Draco made an insulted noise. "I'm not some sort of gutter rat, you know."

"Just a regular old rat," Astoria mumbled, wrapping her arms protectively about her stomach. "Did you know he had a _boyfriend_ when he did this?" she flapped a hand at her stomach. "Poor lad didn't know he was dating a filthy, ferrety rat. If only _I_ knew what I was getting into."

"You seemed to like me well enough back then," Draco said, hurt.

"Obviously," she snapped at him. "Pregnancy brain has helped clear up a few things."

"This is brilliant," Pansy whispered to Daphne, a gleeful sparkle to her eyes. "I could fill a whole movie with their pithy banter. "

"My _life_ is not a fucking rom-com, Pansy!" Draco shouted at her.

Shoving away from the kitchen, he stalked past them and yanked his coat off the hanger. The rack fell with a metallic clang, and Draco kicked it away. He left the apartment with a _slam._

Pansy turned slowly to arch a brow at Astoria. The girl sighed, the fight leaving her. She slumped into the coach, features drawn. "He's a drama queen."

"Hm, then you two really _do_ belong together, don't you?" Daphne inserted teasingly, trying to defuse the situation. "When's he going to pop the question?" She meant it in jest, doubting that the little boy had ever made a responsible decision in his life, but was surprised at Astoria's hardened expression. "Oh, dear. He already has? I hope you didn't accept."

"Of course not. I'm not planning on keeping _this_ baby, why would I want to raise _two_?"

"Excellent point, sister dear. That explains his surliness, then."

"Ever since I rejected his proposal, he's been incorrigible," she confided. "He calls his parents twice a day to complain. No wonder Narcissa doesn't like me, all she hears is 'Astoria did this', 'Astoria bitched about that'. God; if he wasn't such a pretty face, I'd wonder why I put up with him." She shifted uncomfortably in the couch cushions.

"That's why," Pansy pointed out her stomach unhelpfully.

"Yeah," Astoria sighed, staring up at the ceiling. "Right." The loft was uncomfortably quiet for a moment, before Astoria spoke again, wistful. "Tell me more about Cuba, please _."_

* * *

As expected, Draco did, indeed, call his mother to whine.

" - it's just . . . with all of them there, it's worse, because I'm dealing with _three_ women who hate me. I always admired Astoria, she's quite resilient and beautiful, and when we were on set, there was always an undertone of _more - "_

"I know, darling," Narcissa sighed, lifting a hand to inspect her nails. The beds were rounded and the the blood red polish smooth, not a scratch on them. "You had a _crush_ , and you placed her on a pedestal," her tone had a hint of condescension. The was sitting in the solarium, a beam of wintry light cascading over her. Her blonde hair practically glowed.

"Not a crush, exactly, mum," Draco grumbled. "I'm not twelve. But now we've _both_ been knocked down to the bottom of the heap, with the rest of the _commonwealth_ ," Draco spat it like it was a curse. "And we're _stuck_ together. Did you know she's considering getting rid of the baby? Not abortion, no, it's too late for that, but _adoption._ What if it ends up with some - some pathetic couple in the Americas of all places? It's still my baby, don't I get a say in where it ends up?" he sounded almost mournful, as though already grieving the loss of his child.

Narcissa shifted the phone to her other ear. The silken sleeve of her robe slipped down to reveal a pale, elegant shoulder, the wrinkles in her skin barely perceptible. "Do you even _want_ the baby, dear?"

"Of course not. No. Babies cause stress, and stress causes wrinkles," he dismissed the thought. "It's just the _principle_ of it."

"It's her body, Draco," Narcissa reminded him gently. "And if you try to raise a fuss about it, well, god knows she could easily contest your parental rights if you're unwilling - and unfit - to raise a child. Lawsuits and court trials are such a _messy_ business, dear," she trailed off. "Speaking of - "

Draco interrupted, with a low growl. "Goddamnit, I need to go. I stepped out for a bit to catch my breath, but there's a commotion going on in the next street, I can hardly hear you. I love you, give my best to father - "

"You'll probably see him sooner than I," Narcissa said idly, rubbing the bare, pale skin around her left ring finger. "We've divorced. Have a good evening, dear."

She hung up, smirking at Draco's alarmed _"What?!"_

"I'm terribly sorry about that," Narcissa said to her guests, leaning forward to top off Harry and Nymphadora's cup of tea. "My son tends to _rant_ when he's irked; takes after his father in that manner," she sat back, peering at her pink-haired niece and the ex-lover of her dear son. She much preferred the humbled, soft-spoken Harry over Draco's current paramour.

"Now," Narcissa smiled pleasantly. She cradled her own cup, blowing at the steam. "Where were we?"

* * *

 ** _To be continued . . ._**


	9. Chapter 9

**_The Merciful_**

 **TanninTele**

* * *

 _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

 _Chapter Warning: Murder, Graphic Violence, mention of cancer, STDs, and lots and lots of tea._

* * *

 **III:**

 _"Now," Narcissa smiled pleasantly. "Where were we?"_

Harry cleared his throat, tongue burning from the hot tea. "You were telling us about your divorce. It went well, I assume?"

"As well as I expected," she sighed, the sound weary. "With that French family, the DeLacours hounding him for money, Lucius hardly has enough to continue dragging this through court. But it's ugly, ugly business. He's been sending me gifts and cards, begging and pleading for me to return. With the DeLacours and Draco, I suspect our marriage was the only thing in his life he could rely on. To maintain his reputation, at least." She took a tentative sip of her tea, and coughed, lifting a napkin to her lips.

"My, that is hot, isn't it? Living on my own has been a trial. I'm used to hoards of servants and butlers catering to my every need - " Tonks sent Harry an exasperated look. "But the independence _is_ thrilling. Even when it comes to making my own cup of tea whenever I damn well please, and not just at the 'allotted elevenses'. Lucius kept very strict schedules, you see."

Harry looked around Grimmauld Place, the old Black family home. "It's a beautiful home," he complimented. The town home was rather dismal, with little natural light and dark furnishings, but Narcissa brightened it up with candles, fur rugs, flowery centerpieces and a beautiful ivory piano that sat unused in the corner. It was modern, and more importantly, _livable,_ as Grimmauld Place had been left uninhabited since Narcissa was a child.

"Thank you," Narcissa nodded, pleased. "It was a mess when I first moved in. But Serena has been helping me," her high cheekbones flushed. "The only good thing to come out of Lucius and my marriage was our yearly 'honeymoons' to Italy. A romantic getaway, he told everyone, but really just an opportunity for him to gamble with the mafia, and for me to see Italian runway shows," she said wistfully. Harry leaned forward, interested. "They were always so lovely. Colorful, _avant garde._ I met Serena there, at her showcase, and, well - love is love, I suppose. I know she's got a dark past, but who doesn't?"

"Does she visit London often, then?" Harry asked, remembering a meeting with a dark-skinned temptress with a hatred for beige.

"Yes, her son boards here. She's rented an apartment in London, and it's not far from Grimmauld," Narcissa smiled genuinely. She looked young, and in love. It was ridiculously sweet. "I hope she decides to stay. But the moment she and I go public with our relationship, Lucius will throw a _fit._ I won't even mention the _Daily Prophet_ and their obsession with Serena's ex-husbands," she rolled her eyes skyward.

Tonks, who had been rather bored until now, sat up. Her tea was saturated with sugar cubes, and she'd been attempting to balance a spoon on her nose until Harry slapped her arm. "Er, yes," she cleared her throat. "S - suppose you and Madam Zabini were invited to a grand opening of an artifact exhibit. Would that be considered 'public'?"

Narcissa's brows furrowed. "Yes, it would," she said uncertainly. "And I'm not a fan of antiques anyhow. Goodness knows how many 18th century baubles and dusty knickknacks I had to clear out of here for the house to even be _considered_ sanitary," she sniffed. "The children's dolls in the upstairs nursery are most certainly haunted," Narcissa leaned toward Harry, whispering. "I'm considering giving them as an 'heirloom' to Astoria when she has the baby."

The green-eyed boy bit back a laugh. "Oh, don't. Her poor child doesn't deserve to be traumatized."

Narcissa leaned back, a tender look on her face. "No, I suppose not. It's a boy, did you know? After Draco, I never thought I'd have another child," her expression twisted. "It's a 'tradition' in the Malfoy family to have one, and only one, son. The truth is, it's - "

"Low sperm count," Harry nodded, laughing aloud this time. "Draco told me."

"Feel free to tell us any more of Draco's deficiencies," Tonks offered. "Really, we'd love to hear 'em."

The Black matriarch shook her head, amused. "You're not here to verbally bash my ex-husband and son. You came to me for a reason, and I suppose it has something to do with this artifact exposition?"

"Yes, actually," Tonks sat straighter. "The _Magic is Might_ exhibition. Serena Zabini will be doubtlessly invited, and she has the opportunity to invite you as her 'plus one'. However, we _need_ that invite."

Narcissa' expression chilled, gaze focused entirely on her niece. "I see." She changed the subject. "Straight to business, you are, just like your mother."

"My mother's dead," Tonks said flatly. "Cancer. I really don't want to talk about her."

Blue eyes softened. Narcissa leaned forward to lay a hand on Tonks' knee. To Harry's amazement, Tonks didn't immediately pull away. "Your mother loved you very much, Nymphadora," Narcissa told her quietly. "When Andy and I finally began to talk again after her _elopement_ to that . . . _person_ \- "

"It wasn't just an elopement. She was disowned from the family," Tonks shook her hand off. "Because she loved a transgender man. My father, _Edward_ _Tonks_. He's not just some person. Have enough _respect_ to at least say the name of your brother-in-law."

"Edward, then," Narcissa winced. "My apologies. It is hard to shake bigotries that you were raised with. Hell," Narcissa laughed, the swear bitter on her lips. "If Aunt Walburga was still alive, she would have doubtlessly exiled _me_ , as well, for loving a woman. Walburga was the one to pressure me into marrying Lucius, did you know? Right out of school, when I was eighteen. Lucius was older than me, by quite a bit, but he was charming, handsome, rich. He spoke French to me, and I was so _enamored,_ " she shook her head.

"I was naive. He bedded me before marriage after a night of thoughtless drinking, and well - there is a reason Lucius is so _particular_ about Draco having a child out of wedlock. Lucius doesn't want Draco to go down the same path he did. Luckily, Astoria rejected Draco's marriage proposal. _I_ had no choice. Times were different, back then."

Harry had raised a hand to his mouth, watching the woman with glistening eyes. "I loved Draco as soon as he was born, and I admit, I spoiled him. I grew to love Lucius as well, but there are things about him I could not ignore." Narcissa lifted her head to implore with Tonks, her blonde hair a sheen of bleached white around her face. The roots were slowly returning to their original, brunette shade. "I envied your mother _._ Andy and . . . your _father,"_ she stressed. "Were a beautiful couple, deeply in love. When Andy was disowned, I was too caught in my own misfortune to see that our family's bigotry was hurting her. When I finally pulled my head out of my own arse, I . . . I missed her. Dearly. I tracked her down, and discovered a lovely, vivacious niece I never knew I had," she ran a hand down Tonks' face. "She raised an incredible child. I am grateful to have been able to spend that time with Andy, while I still could."

"What about your other sister?" Tonks croaked. "You were the youngest, and my mother was the oldest. What about Bellatrix?"

"Bella is dead," Narcissa said frankly. "She was in her twenties when she contracted a sexually-transmitted disease. Bella was ashamed of it, and did not seek treatment in time."

"How'd she get it?" Harry asked, alarmed.

"From her boyfriend, Rodolphus. He was an incredibly promiscuous man, and a friend of Lucius. They were always involved in very shady business. Gambling, the mafia, the DeLacour debt. I don't know what you two want that invite for, but if it's anything like that - "

Harry and Tonks exchanged a panicked look.

" - I don't want you to tell me about it," she finished, sighing.

"Does that mean . . . " Tonks trailed off. "You'll do it?"

Narcissa lifted a slim shoulder, and her lips twisted into a wry smirk. "You must know, I _was_ a Malfoy for thirty-odd years. I don't do anything for free."

Tonks returned the smile, a patented 'Black family' smirk. "Don't worry," she breathed out, relieved. "I think, given the circumstances, you'll be quite pleased with what Tom has planned. As will your girlfriend."

* * *

 ** _Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire_**

Rapping his pen incessantly against the polished desk, Lucius looked over the divorce papers with half-lidded eyes. They were signed, sealed and had been delivered to his divorce lawyer, but Lucius kept a copy of the documents for tax purposes. The innocuous paper wasn't at fault for his crumbling marriage, but Lucius felt the urge to burn it anyways.

For thirty-some years, Lucius had dedicated his life to his family.

He had known for ages that his father, Abraxas Malfoy, had gained their money through less-than-appropriate means; but Lucius worked _hard_ to maintain their reputation. He wasn't idle. He was a consultant with the Ministry, working on legislation, and was on the Board of Education at Hogwarts University. Lucius had always been not-so-secretly disappointed in his son's decision to attend beauty school rather than a university, _but,_ Narcissa always said it was up to Draco to make his own poor decisions, and learn from them.

Pity was, Lucius doubted Draco was _learning_ anything. The boy was, unfortunately, a fool.

And Lucius was a fool to think he could handle it all. Violently opening a desk drawer, Lucius shoved the papers inside. The door opened just as he slammed the drawer shut. "Master Lucius?" the butler, Mister Dobby, asked in a feeble tone.

 _"What?"_

Dobby flinched. The man was short and weedy, with a bald head and an eccentric demeanor. He was older than Lucius and loyal to the Malfoy family. His family owed a fealty to the Malfoys, and Dobby had been chosen to deal with the consequences of that.

"M - Master," he held a box in his hands, the sleeves of his uniform frayed and stained with tea. His hands trembled faintly from blistering burns. Mister Dobby was contracting a sort of debilitating Parkinson's disease, leaving him clumsy and forgetful; he'd tried bringing up retirement to the Malfoy patriarch, but Lucius tended to turn a blind eye to the suffering of others. Not that Dobby would say that out loud. "There's a package for you, sir. It says, _returned to sender,"_ he read the stamp on the cardboard box. An envelope was taped on top, Lucius' name written in flowing cursive.

"Ah." Lucius mumbled, recognizing the handwriting. As the box was placed onto his desk, glass clinking inside, Lucius scowled even further.

"You'll get wrinkles that way, sir," Dobby inserted quietly.

With great force of will, Lucius smoothed his expression. "Will that be all, Dobby?" he asked, tired.

"Yessir," Dobby hesitated for a moment, before leaving the room. "Good evening, sir."

The door clicked softly shut.

Staring down at the package with much the same expression as the divorce papers, Lucius reached toward the envelope taped to the top.

 _'Lucius,'_ it read, and he could sense from the sharp curves of the letters that the sender was irritated.

 _'There is no reason for you to court me with paltry gifts and flowers._

 _We are getting a divorce, and nothing you do, say or buy will change that._

 _Cordially,_

 _Narcissa Black.'_ Her last name was underlined violently, a hole nearly ripped into the parchment.

Threading his fingers through his long, limp hair, the strands unwashed for days, he stared down at the note. His dove grey eyes were dead. Fighting the urge to throw to package across the room, Lucius peeled away the packing tape and picked up the pink tinted glass bottle, a clear liquid inside. It seemed to have been cracked while in shipping. His fingers were coated with it, the perfume smelling strongly of narcissus. Lucius was hit with a wave of nostalgia.

Fingers trembling, he squeezed the bulb and a cloud of scented mist cascaded over his torso. He inhaled the rosy scent, before gagging at the bitter aftertaste. "What the hell?" he snarled, dropping the perfume and lifting a sleeve to his mouth.

He let out a series of ragged coughs, his lungs _burning._ As Lucius slipped from his seat onto the ground, gasping, the office door opened. Serena Zabini, tall and gorgeous, entered the room a surgical mask covering her mouth. Her dress trailed against the floor, a long, smooth leg stretching out to prod at Lucius' body.

Lucius blinked, mystified, as the blurred stranger peered over his weak body. "How did you - "

"How did I get in? Your manservant, Dobby, the poor man."

"Help . . . " he rasped, lungs growing tighter. "Help me."

Serena gave a cold laugh, bending down over him. "Why should I? You're not the first man I've killed, but you were the easiest," she said, almost fondly. She dragged a sharply nailed finger across his cheek, and Lucius could swear it left a trail of pure fire. "I pride Narcissa in her attempt to segregate herself from your slimy grasp. She deserves far better,"

The murderess leaned down, eyes narrowed with manic, smug pleasure, as she snagged Narcissa's note. She crumpled it, tucking it into her bra. The letter was forged, in order for Lucius to trust the packaged poison, but Serena certainly didn't want her lover to be falsely implicated for murder.

Serena made a career out of murdering men; abusive, cheating, manipulating men, as well as her own seven ex-husbands. She wished she could be more creative with Lucius' death. There were so many opportunities. Serena could slowly drive Lucius to suicide by slipping medication into his tea, or chain him to his bed and force Lucius to _perform_ for her.

This method was painfully easy to organize, but, at the very least, effective.

And no one could deny that the man didn't deserve it.

Serena lowered her mask to press a quick kiss to his forehead, leaving a nasty red mark on his perfect, pale skin.

"I'll be sure to kiss Narcissa _'goodbye'_ for you."

* * *

One week later, Officer Kingsley Shacklebolt was one of the first to investigate Lucius' death. He traveled into the heart of London to visit the recently widowed Narcissa Black at her family home.

Compared to her family, known for derangement and incest, Narcissa was the sleek epitome of class. She was the last remaining Black heiress, highly trained in etiquette and politically proficient - not to mention beautiful. Considering her ex-husband had been missing for nearly seven days, she was amazingly composed, posture straight and chin held high. Her ice blonde hair was piled beneath a tilted black cap, casting her sharp features into shadow. The woman had curtsied gracefully to Kingsley and greeted him politely, but her eyes were still wary.

"You don't seem surprised to learn your husband has died," he noted, removing his cap. "Is there a reason for that?"

"My son called," Narcissa explained. Kingsley took off his outer coat and fixed his cufflinks. The golden badges on his lapel gleamed in the softly flickering light. "If I don't seem horribly distraught, it is because Lucius and I have not been . . . communicating, lately."

"From my understanding, you are going through a divorce?" Kingsley asked, accepting the suggestion of tea in the solarium.

"Yes," the woman said stiffly. "We've divorced. But that's not exactly a _secret_ ,despite our best efforts to keep Rita Skeeter quiet on the matter."

Kingsley hummed in sympathy. His force was having a hell of a time closing up the crime scene at Malfoy Manor with that nosy bitch trying to interview every rookie for an 'inside scoop'. "My sympathies. Now, Missus Malfoy - _Black,"_ he corrected himself, removing a notepad and pen from an inner pocket. "Where were you the night of - "

She snorted inelegantly. Time away from her husband had loosened her. "Rest assured, no matter the night, I have an alibi, Officer Kingsley. I've been playing house with a dear friend for weeks on end," the woman explained delicately.

"At night?" he asked dubiously. Narcissa stared him down, and he bit his tongue, flushing in realization. "Ah, of course."

"As I said, Lucius and I haven't spoken in a long while, although that's not atypical."

"So, a prolonged silence isn't rare?"

Narcissa sighed, and remained standing as Kingsley sat down in a comfortable chair. A tea tray was already prepared, and Narcissa spoke as she poured for him. "Lucius likes to travel alone on occasion. He is - _was -_ a very solitary man, you must understand."

Shacklebolt nodded idly, bringing the porcelain cup to his nose. "When did you first learn about his death?"

"When my son, Draco, visited home," Narcissa said. "The boy is prone to tantrums. He heard of our divorce and stormed into his father's office, wanting answers. He found Lucius' body slumped behind his desk. I'm afraid it was quite traumatizing."

"Of course," Kingsley murmured.

"Officer Kingsley, I promise you, that is all I know. I know what you're thinking, but there is no _reason_ for me to kill my ex-husband. We've divorced. I've gotten my money, my freedom, and I am absolutely content with my life."

Kingsley frowned deeply. "Your husband hadn't changed his will at the time of his death. At this moment, you are primed to receive what was left of the Malfoy fortune - "

"My husband's family owed a large debt to the DeLacours in France," Narcissa said coldly. "I doubt what's left is little more than a pittance. I'm sorry to be so blunt, Officer, but you have _nothing_ on me."

Kingsley clenched the handle of his tea cup; "We found a perfume bottle in the room with him. A pink woman's perfume, shattered and containing trace amounts of noxious poison." His accent was becoming thick with agitation.

"Dear me," Narcissa took a smooth sip. "It seems my husband has moved on already. Perhaps you should be looking into who he bought the perfume for? Clearly, it's not me," Narcissa gestured downwards. "I am, quite presently, a lesbian. I wouldn't accept a gift from _him,_ or any other man, for that matter."

"We'll be running fingerprints on the bottle," Kingsley warned.

"Oh, good. That _is_ your job, isn't it?" Her welcoming persona had dropped, leaving a frigid, narrow-eyed woman in it's place. "Best of luck with that, Officer. Now, you really must be off, I have funeral affairs to plan for."

* * *

Bolstering himself, as he did every evening coming home, Ron pushed open the door to Gryffindor House. "Oi there, Weasley!" Came an immediate shout. "Get any pussy from Granger today?"

A boombox was playing some rock band excruciatingly loud, but not loud enough for Ron to ignore Cormac's shout. He winced at the language, but soldiered on, tossing off his boots and flipping the two-fingered salute to McLaggen. "None of your damn business, Mc _Faggen,"_ he mocked, pleased at Cormac's red flush.

Cormac sat at a billiard table, idly thumping a stick against the ground as Lee Jordan, snickering, made a shot. "I'm not drunk enough to pick a fight with you, Weasley," Cormac warned. With his free hand, he lifted a beer bottle from the table and took a swig. "But I will be soon. Better hustle off before I kick your arse."

"Like _that'll_ happen," Ron shook his head and began to ascend the stairs to his room.

Their 'playful, friendly banter' had taken a turn since Ron started dating Hermione. Cormac constantly pestered him for details, but Ron wasn't one to kiss and tell.

Ron suspected jealousy, not that there was anything to be jealous of. Hermione made it clear she was not looking for a physical relationship. So far, she was the only one to initiate a kiss goodbye; he very much doubted she'd let him slip a hand into her pleated pantsuits.

Their 'dates' were typically at the library, wherein Hermione worked and Ron studied - studied _her_ as she bent over to replace books, mostly. At the end of her shift, if Ron was lucky, they would share a coffee at the nearby shop.

Or, rather, Hermione had tea, and Ron caffeinated himself so he might survive her nervous chatter regarding whatever book she was reading or advanced-level class she was studying. He now knew far more about quantum mechanics than he ever expected.

Hermione just looked so damn _passionate_ when she was lecturing on something impossible and incredible. Her eyes, like pools of chocolate, lit up and her hair began to frizz - just a bit, like a cat's. Her voice changed tenor, to a high, ringing sound that sent shivers down his back.

Ron thinks he might be falling in love. It's a bit early to tell, sure, but -

A resounding _bang_ echoed throughout the house.

"Jesus _fuck!"_ Cormac screeched from downstairs. "You made me miss my shot!"

"Sorry!" Came a call from Fred and George's room. A billow of smoke leaked out from the bottom of their door. Ron frowned deeply, before shoving the door open. Probably not his smartest idea, as he caught a face full of fire extinguisher.

He coughed violently, hands on his knees. "What the _hell?"_

The smoke cleared, revealing a set of sheepish twins, their eyebrows singed and a black mark on the carpet. "Is that," Ron wheezed, covering his mouth with his sleeve. "A bomb?"

The three stared down at a small, metallic tube, currently emptying itself of a boiling liquid into a melted plastic tub. "It was," Fred said, nudging it with his toe. "George dropped the damn thing, and it went off."

"This is bloody dangerous," Ron said in disbelief. "That's a _bomb!_ You could be arrested for _terrorism_!"

"It was completely under our control," George attempted to assure. "It's a prescribed fire, you see - "

Ron lifted a hand, cutting him off. "I don't _care,"_ he said, exasperated. The twins were constantly working on their little inventions and experiments; putting their chemistry and technical degrees to good use, but this was crossing a line. "It doesn't matter how 'safe' you think it is; you just bloody let loose a chemical bomb in our fraternity because of a bit of clumsiness. Don't you have anywhere else where you could pull this crap?"

"Well, yes. But Tom doesn't really like it when - " George nudged Fred painfully in the ribs. "T - Tonks, I meant. Tonks."

"Tom? Who the hell is - " Ron closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. "It doesn't matter. Really. I just, I want to know - what the hell _this,"_ he circled the bomb with a finger. "Has to do with that pink-haired freak. And - and why Hermione gets so damned _pissed_ when I mention Tonks and you two in the same sentence?"

"Ah," George sighed, relieved. "Jealousy, I'd think. After all, we are quite dashing young men, and Tonks is a very attractive girl, once you get past the tendency to hide knives in her bra - "

"Knives in her - have all these chemicals made you _high?_ "

George peered down into the tube, frowning. "They just might have. Explains why you're so loose-lipped, Fred."

" _Me?_ You're the one jabbering about Tonks' bra - "

They were getting ready to shove each other, and usually Ron would make a tactical retreat while he could, but he could recognize when they were trying to distract him. _"Shut up_ about her bra," Ron hissed, hands on his hips as he channeled their mother. "Either you two tell me what the _hell_ is going on, or I'll go to Percy and have you expelled for reckless endangerment." Percy, the perfect prefect, worked as an assistant to the college dean. Percy wasn't afraid to push his own family under the bus when it meant securing his position as a loyal, rule-following sycophant.

"Not Percy," Fred whispered in horror.

"You wouldn't _dare!"_ George added.

Ron nodded solemnly. "I would."

The twins exchanged a _look_.

* * *

 ** _To be continued . . ._**


	10. Chapter 10

**_The Merciful_**

 **TanninTele**

* * *

 _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

 _Chapter Warning: Sexual content implied, minor cross-dressing_

* * *

 **IV:**

"What the _hell_ is this place?" Ron asked, looking around in disgust at _The Hog's Head._

Fred and George snickered as they frog-walked him deeper into the building, giving the amused Aberforth a jaunty lift of the hat. Neither were wearing hats, so they mostly looked like fools. "This, dear brother," Fred said cheerfully, fighting the fact he was panicking inside. "Is where all the magic happens."

George pressed his lips by Ron's ear, and pointed at the cracked mirror. "That's where I got shot," he whispered breathily. Disbelieving, Ron twitched and batted him away. They shoved him downward into the basement and rapped the secret code into the door.

"What on Earth - " baffled, Ron peered inside as the door swung open. "My God."

He flinched as the _thud_ of a knife embedded into the wall beside his ear.

"Whoops - sorry!" Tonks said sheepish.

Smirking, Fred yanked the throwing knife out of the wall and tossed it back. She caught it deftly in her non-dominant hand, spinning it between her fingers. Her nails were polished with rainbow colors, and her pink hair was held back in a series of barrettes. "One, two, thr - why are there _three_ gingers here?!" she startled, nearly dropping the knife on her toes. "There's only so many Weasleys we can handle here, guys."

Hermione, reclined in a swivel chair, her hair cascading down in loose curls, looked up. Her eyes went wide, and she hid behind her newspaper before Ron could recognize her.

" . . . yeah," Fred sighed, yanking Ron along. He had begun to wander toward the computers, and that was a recipe for disaster. "We may have made a mistake."

"A tall one," Tonks noted absently, flipping the knife in her hands. She winked. "Not as good-looking as you two, though." From her chair, Hermione flushed jealously, sliding down into the cushion.

Fred placed a hand on his heart. "Flattering, quite flattering, Miss Tonks."

"But we don't know how reliable that is," George said wryly, sending a slight smirk to Hermione's hidden figure. "Considering your preference for the fairer sex."

Tonks shrugged idly. "I can respect both the male and the female form. So long as _they_ can respect _me,"_ she rolled her hips, sliding her hands down her body seductively, until she was in a fighter's stance. "Duck."

The twins yanked Ron down as the knife went slicing past their heads. It cracked into a bookshelf behind them, leaving a splintered hole in the wood. "We'd best visit the boss," George popped right back up, as though they hadn't just been at risk for a beheading.

Tonks nodded, sniffing. "You'd best."

"D - do you want me to get that?" Ron cleared his throat, and tentatively pointed upwards at the knife. It was poking out a foot above his head, not to mention three feet above hers.

Tonks narrowed her eyes at the knife, and seemed to take it as a challenge. She smiled coolly. "Don't worry about _me,_ Weasley." Without another word, she vaulted upwards from her crouch, bounced off a chair - Hermione yelping - and snatched the knife.

Ron stared blankly at his dark-skinned girlfriend. "H - Hermione?"

The girl winced, and watched helplessly as Fred and George dragged Ron into Tom's office.

They were instantly met with the back of a desk chair, a slender body arching backwards. Slender, strong fingers were entwined in his dark curls, and Harry gasped as a swift bite was delivered to his jugular. "Tom!" he breathed, pushing lightly at the man's shoulders. "T - Tom, we have guests."

"Bugger," the man whispered.

Ron closed his eyes tightly at the sound of a zipper pulling. He covered his face with his hands, red as a firetruck and - actually - close to crying. "Are _all_ my friends involved in this - this secret cult?"

"Cult?" Tom tsked, turning the chair, Harry settled back on his lap. They were both decent, at least, even if Harry's hair was a ruffled mess and Tom wore a self-satisfied smirk. " _Please_. Although I wouldn't mind being revered as a god every once and a while."

"Good luck with that," Harry snorted at him.

"Hm. Excellent point. Gods are omniscient, and while I consider myself quite well informed, I don't have a single clue as to what _he_ is doing here." Tom jabbed a finger at Ron, who shifted uncomfortably behind the twins.

Fred coughed. "Right. About that. George and I were working on the controlled fire bomb, like you asked, and there was this massive earthquake that shook - erm, a good one-sixteenth of London."

"Uh huh," Tom said dubiously.

"The chemicals spilled, and we must've blacked out for a bit, because the next thing we knew, we woke up here with Ron, and - "

"Oh, shut up." Tom snorted, and reaching beneath his desk, pulled out a gun. The twins flinched. He settled the weapon onto the tabletop and began idly cleaning it with a cloth, handing the clip to Harry for safe keeping. "For two excellent spies, you're both horrid at lying. Aren't they, darling?"

"I don't know," Harry considered, a smile turning his lips. "Ron certainly looks all shook up. Are you sure you aren't just having a terrible, trauma-induced nightmare right now?" he asked Ron concern, passing Tom back the clip. Tom cocked it, and peered inside the barrel with an arched brow.

Pale from head-to-toe, his freckles prominent, Ron shuddered. "I certainly hope so."

"I can't see what he'd be so shook up about," Tom said, innocent. "We're all friends here. Well - " he glanced at Harry, nudging the boy's chin with the gun. "Some of us more than friends." He pulled Harry into a soft kiss, dragging his teeth over Harry's bottom lip.

"What're you guys doing?" George deadpanned, twitching a finger between the two. "This is a family establishment."

Harry pulled away, breathless. He wiped his lips, and pressed two fingers to his pulse, which was fluttering madly. He was mostly trying to hide the massive hickey forming there. "We're trying to make Tom seem busy until Hermione cools down," he tried to explain.

"H - Hermione?" Ron frowned, still stunned at the turn of events. "Until she cools down from what?"

"You _assassinated_ Lucius Malfoy?" Hermione, almost on queue, screeched from the other room.

Tom raised his navy eyes to the sky, swearing under his breath.

"You shouldn't have left the newspaper out where she could find it," Harry pointed out unhelpfully. Harry wiggled on Tom's thighs, causing the older man to gasp in arousal.

He pushed Harry off his lap, albeit gently. "Just for that, doll," Tom smiled sharply. Ron saw the hint of white incisors, bared like a wildcat's. " _You_ can take Ronald on a tour, and explain to him our operations here." He settled his gaze onto Fred and George who, while displaying immense bravado, each kept a protective hand on Ron's back. "I'll deal with _these_ two idiots."

"Come on, Tommy," George whined, dropping into a seat across from Tom. "We told you already what happened."

"And I told you," He took up his gun, a finger settled on the trigger. "Never to call me _Tommy_."

Harry took Ron by the arm and pulled him along, apologizing under his breath. "Tom isn't going to hurt them, I swear. The safety's on. He's just going to give them a talking-to."

"Yeah?" Ron asked, breathless.

"Yeah. One of the stipulations of their 'employment' here is two-way confidentiality. Tom won't kill them, they won't blab their mouths." Ron blanched, and Harry hurried to assure. "It's not your fault. They're the ones that slipped up. You're harmless, at least, so the worst they'll get is a slap on the wrist. He's fond of them."

He pushed open the door, back into the command center. Hermione was standing over Tonks, who was casually spinning the blade in her hand. The pink-haired girl looked remarkably calm, considering the circumstances. Hermione ever looked at Ron like _that,_ he'd probably dig his own grave so she wouldn't have to go through the labor of burying his dead body.

" - don't you think _poisoning_ the man is going a bit far?" Flapping the newspaper in the air, Hermione slapped it down. "And, really - oh, for God's sake, put down the damn knife. I can't take you seriously when you're spinning it around like a baton. You could take an eye out like that."

"Alright, alright," Tonks said soothingly, placing the knife onto the ground. "Listen, about Malfoy, it was a calculated risk. The man was going to get in our way. His lawyer, Caractacus Burke, found evidence that it was Tom who leaked their misfortune to _T_ _he Daily Prophet._ They were getting too close to us."

"But - "

"No buts," she shook her head, grasping Hermione's hands. "Malfoy _had_ to be terminated. It's merely a happy coincidence that this happened to coincide with our involvement of Narcissa Black. She was pleased by his death; he hadn't yet changed his will with their divorce, so what remains of the Malfoy fortune belongs to her. Killing two birds with one stone, right? And Madam Zabini was all-too-willing to protect her girlfriend. It wasn't difficult to convince her - "

"Why did we go through the lengths of negotiating with Narcissa Black if Zabini is already in Tom's pocket?" Hermione asked, eyes shrewd.

"Oh, that was a stipulation, as well. Zabini doesn't work for anyone but herself, anf would only help us if _she_ got the honors of offing Malfoy," Tonks smirked. "Come on, you've got to admit, the man was an arsehole."

Still talking, Tonks shifted closer to Hermione until they were almost nose-to-nose. Hermione was slowly softening under Tonks' reassurances, and their voices settled to a light murmur. Eventually, Hermione nodded at her roommate.

Smiling in satisfaction, Tonks pressed a kiss to Hermione's cheek. " - right, then. Look at this with me?" She sat down with Hermione in front of a blueprint, thighs touching. "There's something odd that we noticed a about the exhibition. The largest room in the building is a ballroom, and we assumed this is where they would host the exhibit. However, there's a sunroof - "

"Why would they place all these priceless artifacts under natural light?"

"Exactly. The exhibit is somewhere else, but once it begins, all the entrances and exits will be guarded. The sunroof is our only access, but for that to work, we need to clear the room."

"What about the vents?" Hermione mused aloud.

"See, we considered that - eventually I'd have to _leave_ the vents, so we still have to - " Tonks flipped an errant hair over her shoulder, and leaned over the blueprints. Hermione watched her with a gentle look.

"Are those two . . . are they dating?" Ron asked quietly.

Harry jerked, torn from his quiet explanation of the Death Eater's and their functions. "Have you been listening to a single word I've said?"

Ron waved a hand. "Yeah, yeah. Secret operation, gang war, petty theft, grand theft - knowing Fred and George, I'm not surprised they've found a home with this lot. It's just . . . _Hermione."_ He let out a breath, almost disappointed. "I thought she was _normal_. She's so _smart,_ why would she - ?" Ron closed his mouth. He gestured at the two girls. "It's Tonks, isn't it? Hermione never looks at me like that,"

"I - " Harry trailed off, staring at his roommates with abrupt realization. He watched as Tonks reached over to tug one of Hermione's curls, teasing. He blinked. "Wow. That's quite obvious, isn't it? I can't _believe_ I never noticed. I suppose I don't have as great a gaydar as I thought," Harry mused

"Why I keep going after lesbians?" Ron moaned, throwing his head back.

"Right," Harry said, bemused. "So you're _not_ upset that she's apart of a crime league - you're just upset she's gay."

Ron shoved Harry. "You're the one that set me up with her!"

Harry turned Ron around, patting his back. "It's alright, mate. We'll find you someone who isn't your left hand."

Ron groaned mournfully. "Don't remind me."

Tsking, Harry took pity on him. "Say . . . , there's this intern at the Daily Prophet who's incredibly similar to Hermione in looks, but _trust_ me, she's straight . . . "

* * *

Nearly three months later, the baby was early.

And it definitely wasn't Draco's.

Little Scorpius, unlike his mother, had a shock of black hair and lightly tanned skin that Astoria recognized immediately. "He's a Zabini," she breathed to herself, as the baby was settled into her arms after nearly ten hours of labor. "He's Blaise's."

Her hair was lank and sweaty, her mascara smeared from Astoria's violent, pained sobbing, and Draco's knuckles were most certainly broken from holding her hand. "My God," he said, more relieved than anything. "Wait, _Zabini?!"_

After a brief shouting match that required Draco being escorted out of the maternity ward, Draco called his mother, voice strained from crying. "It's not mine," he sobbed, lifting a still-hurting hand to his face. "The baby isn't mine."

"What - " Narcissa started, confused. "Well, that's - is it at least healthy?"

"Yes, yes, mother and baby are fine. But they're not my problem anymore, don't you see!" He shouted, thrilled.

Irritated, the waiting room secretary shushed him. Draco flicked her off, and - the back of his coat flapping, ran out of the hospital into the street. "It's not my kid, and this whole time, I could've been with Harry. Our reputations might not be in tatters, and father might not - " he cut himself off, stopping nearly halfway into the street. He quickly jerked out of the way of an incoming tab. "Father would be pleased."

"Your father," Narcissa stressed, stern. "Didn't care a whit about the child. He just wanted you to make a responsible decision, for once, and take care of your own. The fact Astoria was sleeping with other men would not _please_ him. It's _your_ actions that dissappointed him or made him proud, not anyone else's."

"It doesn't matter, anyway," Draco shook it off, raking a hand through his hair. The strands were free from gel and - quite frankly, disgustingly sweaty - but he didn't give a damn. He'd just spent ten hours in a stuffy, bleak hospital holding the hand of a woman he didn't love, dreading the birth of a son he didn't want, and now - he didn't have to worry about any of it. "Astoria and Blaise Zabini can fuck off and form their own perfect little family, or Astoria can ditch the kid and go to Havana, for all I care. I'm calling Harry, and I'm going to make things work. Life is short. Father knew that better than anyone."

" _Zabini,"_ Narcissa mouthed, confused, and on her end of the line, turned a pair of wide eyes to her girlfriend. She cleared her throat. "Well, darling, don't make any hasty decisions regarding that poor Potter boy, He's already been through enough - " the line buzzed, as Draco hung up.

The Black matriarch swallowed tightly, and shifted on the loveseat closer to her lover. "Serena, darling," Narcissa said sweetly, smoothing a hand across Serena's long leg. "You like babies don't you?"

Serena slowly set down her book. "That depends. Whosebaby?"

" _Yours._ Your grandson," Narcissa lorded, thrilled. She flashed Serena a picture on her phone, of a wrinkled, dark-skinned, squalling thing. "Scorpius Greengrass-Zabini."

Brown eyes narrowed, realization creeping in. " _Grandson_ \- what the hell?"

Serena sat up as her phone vibrated, peering a text from her son. It was frantic, and misspelled, as Blaise was rushing to the hospital to visit Astoria. They were planning on taking a paternity test, just to make certain. Blaise, however, didn't seem so certain he _wanted_ a son.

"Oh. A grandson. So it seems."

"I've always wanted to adopt," Narcissa added, almost absently.

The other woman tsked, putting away her phone and picking up her book. "Yes, well, I suppose _someone_ has to care for the baby. We can rename him, correct? Scorpius is so . . . _pretentious."_

"No more pretentious than 'Draco'," Narcissa said, an abandoned, glorious smile crossing her lips. "But I was eighteen, and easily convinced. I want to raise this one right."

* * *

Tonks dropped a handful of cash onto the counter at the coffee shop, and took up both their drinks in one hand. She passed a cup to Hermione, who - in honor of the upcoming spring season - had ordered an iced tea. "See? I can provide for my friends," she said with a wide smile. "I didn't even have to rob the cafe at gunpoint."

"Oh, but you're paying with your own money, are you?" Hermione asked, raising a brow.

"Well. Tom's money," Tonks amended. She took a deep sip of her coffee. "He left his wallet in his pants, on the floor of Harry's room. He should know better."

Hermione fought a smile.

"I've never liked tea," Tonks confided in her roommate as they left the shop. "It's too . . . _sophisticated_ for my taste. I always have to saturate it with sugar to even tolerate it."

Hermione stared at her in amazement. "We're British. Tea runs through our veins, more potent than blood."

Brown eyes rolled. "The Black family is Celtic and my father is German."

"And my mother is from Trinidad. So what?" Hermione shook her head. "Just try it."

"Nope!" Tonks tried to rush away, jumping onto a pedestrian path, but Hermione could be a determined little bugger.

"Take one sip! _One,"_ she pleaded, stopping Tonks with a hand on her arm. "It'll be good, I promise." Tonks felt heat from the hand's pressure, and - suddenly irked - grabbed the cup from Hermione's hand and took a quick swig. She expected to recoil immediately, but was instead surprise by a sweet, sour mix that exploded on her tongue.

"What _is_ that?"

"It's mixed with lemonade. Half-and-half." Hermione said, pleased. "Quite good, no?"

Tonks grudgingly took another sip. "Not terrible. Did - ah - _Ronald_ ever take you out for coffee? Is that when you discovered this?" she tried to make the question nonchalant, but winced at herself.

Hermione shrugged, taking back her drink. "We went to coffee shops a lot, yes. Nothing terribly romantic. It was usually after work, so I'd be tired, and he'd be bored. Why do you ask?"

"I dunno." Tonks said, too quick. "I just - I was curious. I haven't really dated since Remus, you know?"

She took a sip of her own coffee, but it suddenly seemed so _bland_ to her. The taste was foul in her mouth, and when Hermione wasn't looking, she dropped it into a rubbish bin. Somewhere deep inside, Tonks hoped Hermione would share.

The weather was fair, so they were walking home, a cool breeze brushing their skin. The snow was slowly melting, leaving slush everywhere, but Tonks could spot a few splashes of green blooming through the cracks in the sidewalk. She kicked at a chunk of snow, sending it skidding into the street. A car ran over it with a wet splash.

"Remus," Tonks continued after a beat. "Well, _Remus_ was one of a kind."

"Arrested, wasn't he?" Hermione said with a small, teasing smile. "For streaking right in front of the police."

"His buddy dared him," Tonks defended, but she couldn't help but laugh. "I could've bailed him out, I suppose, but . . . as fun as it was with him, I didn't really _feel_ it."

Hermione pursed her lips, and brought her cup to them. Her voice was quiet. "What did you feel, then?"

"Bereft," Tonks stated, without really thinking. Her cheeks turned the color of her hair. "Wow. All this time we've spent hanging out, I've started to sound like you," she laughed nervously, and lifted the collar of her shirt to avoid Hermione's hurt frown. "Kidding. I - um - I don't know. We just didn't _click,_ you know? He was like me in a lot of ways, had a great sense of humor, and was so incredibly clever - like you, a bit, actually. But he was a real pushover. Always let his friends talk him into doing things. He'd have jumped off a cliff if they asked. Sometimes, I thought he was more in love with his best friend than he was with me. But that's another story," Tonks placed her hands in her pockets.

The two were quiet for a moment, enough time to cross the street. They could see their apartment complex in the distance.

"Kind of sucks for our exes, don't you think?" Hermione said abruptly. "Remus ends up in jail, and Ron discovers all his close friends and family are mixed up in a con operation." She laughed. "We're _great_ influences, aren't we?"

Tonks joined in her laughter, cheeks warming at the sound of Hermione's giggles. She let their hands brush together, and if their pinkies linked in the process; well, it was all very platonic.

She felt almost . . . _bereft,_ when Hermione pulled away to take out her key card. Hermione handed the iced tea to Tonks, who took an ample sip before handing it back. Tonks wondered to herself, if they kissed, would Hermione's lips would taste like lemon?

They opened the door to their apartment. The telly was on, and Harry was murmuring softly with Tom on the couch. The younger boy was clearly upset.

Tonks strutted in, smirking at the red marks on Harry's wrists and throat.

"What're you two talking about?" Hermione leaned against the kitchen counter, finishing the last of her tea.

"The Malfoy brat," Tom's nose crinkled, pointing the remote at the television to switch it off. "It appears, according to celebrity news, he is _not_ Astoria Greengrass' baby daddy. That honor goes to Blaise Zabini; the relatively unremarkable son of Madam Zabini. An 'close, inside source' says they had relations at a beach house party."

Harry, visibly subdued, sunk deeper into the couch beside his boyfriend. "I had wondered why he was calling me," he murmured. "But Tom wouldn't let me ask."

Tonks stiffened while in the process of checking the fridge. She spoke clearly, enunciating carefully, as she asked for confirmation. "He _called_ you?"

Tom thought back to that morning.

 _The phone was ringing; he almost hadn't noticed over the sound of their ragged breathing, until the automated voice messaging system picked it up. The words faded in and out, before Harry pulled away, and shushed him._

" _\- We were both being petty, admit it. Let's just talk it over, and if you're -_ unwilling _to get back together now, we can just be friends. I'd . . . I'd really appreciate a second chance - "_

 _At that, Tom grumbled under his breath and reached for the landline._

 _"Tom . . . " Harry whispered urgently, green eyes wide. "No - don't." He jerked upwards, and slumped back with a huff, movements restricted._

 _"Hello?" Tom said into the speaker, his voice deep and rough. "Who is this?"_

 _The other line was quiet, with only the soft sound of Draco's breathing. "Um. It's Draco. Draco Malfoy. Who - who is_ this?"

 _"Tom Riddle," the man introduced smoothly, letting out a short grunt as he crawled off Harry and sat on the edge of the bed, closer to the phone. He was shirtless, and the muscles of his back were tense, no matter how calm he sounded._

 _" . . . right," Draco said, dubious. "Is Harry there?"_

 _With a shit-eating grin, Tom ran a finger down the silken necktie knotted to the headboard. "Oh, no. He's a bit tied up now."_

 _Harry jerked on the ropes, the wiry muscles of his torso strained and glistening. "_ Tom!" _he whispered furiously._ " _Don't - don't say that."_

 _"Hush," Tom shushed him. He continued pleasantly. "Would you like to leave a message?"_

 _"Er, yes, actually - "_

 _"That's a pity, as I'm not a messanger owl. If_ _you'd like to contact him, he'll be moving in with me sooner rather than later, once the deed on the penthouse goes through. And we don't give our phone number to solicitors."_

 _Harry rolled his eyes back and strained on the ropes, wishing dearly that he could slap his lover in the back of the head. And then drag him back to finish what he'd started._

 _Tom seemed to sense Harry's heated stare, as he began to wrap things up. "Now, it's been an absolute delight, but I'm afraid my lover needs a bit of attention. Wish me luck. He's a handful." Tom brought a hand around to grasp the tent in Harry's boxers. The boy let out a pitiful, needy cry that Draco would have to be deaf to ignore. "Literally."_

"He did," Tom nodded, smirking at Harry's blush.

"Right. That's it," With a stomp to her feet, Tonks disappeared into her room for a good three minutes, before returning with a gleeful expression. Harry peered up at her, dread in his eyes. "I did it. It's uploaded."

Tom blinked. "What is?"

"That man-whore and Harry's - "

Harry hid himself in the coach cushion, moaning almost indecently. "Don't _tell_ him!"

" _Please_ , don't talk about it," Hermione added, pleading. "I really don't need to know the details."

Tonks finished. " _Sex tape."_

At that, Hermione quickly bowed out, covering her ears. Tonks smiled at her innocently, and spoke louder, just to annoy her. "Harry told Draco if he made the slightest bit of contact, I had full authority to humiliate him. Don't worry, Harry, I blurred your features." She perched on the armrest, nudging her shoulder good-naturedly into Harry's. Harry weakly shoved her away.

Face still muffled by his pillow, Harry mumbled. " _Great."_

Naturally, Tom demanded to watch.

Tonks fetched Hermione's computer from beside the couch, booting up the internet with a dark smile. "If she finds out you used her computer to watch porn - " Harry warned.

She flapped a hand. "It's for scientific purposes."

" _What_ scientific _\- ?"_

" _Biology_ ," Tonks stated with a sly smile, covering Tom's groin with the laptop. He grunted slightly. "Watch and weep, Riddle. Watch and weep."

The video, posted on a website similar to WikiLeaks, and already gaining dozens of views, began with a poorly edited intro. Grainy sound effects of city life and road construction filled the room. Tom turned it up as Malfoy entered the frame.

The pale man was dressed in a ridiculous orange vest, and nothing else. He was a construction worker. "He wouldn't wear the helmet," Harry murmured softly, clearly embarrassed. "Thought it would ruin his hair."

Draco was stroking himself on screen, and the awkward zoom-in finally pulled away as Harry walked in on him. "Oh, God," Harry covered his face with his hands. The faceless twink onscreen was barely recognizable as the boy he was today. Pale and nervous, Harry wore the schoolgirl skirt with clear reluctance, although he became more confident as Draco showered him with gruff, clearly scripted, compliments and cat-calls. There was no real plot, as Draco soon took over, pushing Harry roughly to his knees.

"Who directed this?" Tom asked in a hushed voice.

Harry, afraid to look him in the eyes, spoke softly. "Draco had a videographer friend film it. Terry Boot, or something." Tom was quiet for a moment. Harry took a peek, and saw Tom's eyes were lidded with desire.

Tonks spoke up, her voice high and breezy. "Rather strange for a personal video to be filmed by a _friend_. Unless you three had an - ah - _ménage à trois_ ," the suggestion made Harry cringe.

"Absolutely not," he shook his head, pressing his cheek to Tom's arm. "Terry was a menace. Although, now that I think about it, Draco and Boot spent an awful lot of time 'editing' it."

Tom, saving Harry from his torture, scrolled down to read the comments. "Everyone seems to like your skirt, love," Tom told him, a tongue peeking out between his lips. He shifted the computer on his lap. "As do I."

"Yeah, well, it's _my_ skirt," Tonks said sardonically, sitting up. She approached a basket filled with folded laundry, courtesy of Hermione. Combing through the articles of ripped jackets and dark leggings, she tossed the plaid skirt at Harry. "If you like it so much, you can keep it."

Avarice gleaming in his eyes, Tom took the skirt reverently into his hands, staring at his lover. They both ignored the sound of Draco ejaculating on screen, the pitiful streaks staining Harry's face. The camera shook, as though the camera crew was rather _busy_ holding it one-handed.

"Hm. Schoolgirl skirt, huh?" Tom mused, brushing a finger down Harry's red cheek. "When I was younger, I fancied being a professor."

Harry considered it, trying the phrase on his tongue. It came out as a sensual purr. " _Professor_ Riddle?"

Tom's eyes clouded.

"If you two are going to have kinky, role-play sex," Tonks quickly interrupted, snatching Hermione's laptop back. "Do it at Tom's. We have thin walls."

The couple stood, hands entwined, and while Harry fetched his shoes, Tom mouthed. _'Send me the link.'_

Tonks gave him a thumbs up. "Will do."

They left quickly.

Kicking the door shut behind them, Tonks carefully erased Hermione's internet history, so the girl wouldn't panic. Just before she pressed the _clear history_ button, Tonks paused. "Hermione," she called out. "The coast is clear."

Tentatively, Hermione opened her bedroom door. All Tonks could see peering out was a mass of hair. Tonks smirked to herself, and pressed _play_ on the video, the sound of Harry's moans filling the apartment. She leaned back seductively on the couch.

"So . . . the apartment's empty. Wanna have kinky, gay sex?"

Hermione flushed violently and, in a blur of dark curls, slammed the door shut, hiding a smile.

* * *

 _ **THE** **DAILY PROPHET**_

 _Obituaries:_

 ** _Alvin Creevey_**

 _Devoted father, Alvin M. Creevey (45) was found dead at his home last night due to a burglary-turned homicide. He is survived by his two sons, Colin (19) and Dennis (13), who is in the hospital with greivous injuries._

 _The funeral will be held on Saturday at 3:30 p.m. at the chapel of St. Stephen's to the graveyard. If anyone has information regarding Mister Creevey's tragic death, please come forth and contact constable Francis Martin at Whitby 01947._

 _ **Terrence Boot**_

 _T_ _errence Boot (24) was found dead in the Hogwarts University darkroom due to an 'accidental ingestion of acidic photograph developing chemicals'._ _Terrence, known to his friends and family as 'Terry', was a student of film and videography -_

"Ah," Tom smiled, finding what he was looking for. It seemed his assassins had done their job. He set the newspaper down to watch Harry butter his toast. The boy was clearly struggling, the bread crumbling onto the plate.

Tom was amused. "Do you need help buttering your toast, dear?"

"I - " Harry grunted, scraping the knife across the burnt bread. "Am perfectly capable. Of buttering my bread."

Tom leaned over to kiss Harry's cheek. "I never said you weren't," he said quietly, slipping a hand up Harry's skirt. "You're capable of anything you put your mind to."

"Don't patronize me."

Tom smiled sweetly. "I love you."

"Well, I'd hope so," the boy flushed, batting his hands away. "Now give a man some space to enjoy his toast, or I'll cut you with this knife," Harry brandished the butter knife, not-so threatening with hair in his face and a plaid skirt trailing scantily against his thighs. Tom could see a hint of Harry's lacy underwear, and smirked knowingly.

"Don't think I won't," Harry warned.

"Darling," Tom said fondly, raising his hands defensively. "If it brought you peace and joy, I'd gladly let you kill me any day."

Harry rolled his eyes at him, meeting half-way for a reluctant kiss. "Little deaths only, Tom. Little deaths."

* * *

 ** _To be continued in_ The Powerful**

 **Estimated time of update: July 31st**


	11. Chapter 11

**_The Powerful_**

 **TanninTele**

* * *

 _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

 **I:**

 _"Breaking news! 'The Grey Wolf' h_ _as struck again, but this time, the police have a suspect in custody. Late Thursday night in Whitby, the house of Alvin M. Creevey, infamous candid photographer, was broken into."_

The brown-haired, plainly attractive reporter spoke in a monotone on the telly. She sat stiff-backed behind a desk, wearing an alarmingly fuchsia, tight-fighting dress that made Harry grimace and ignore the program entirely.

 _"The burglary quickly turned to homicide as 'The Grey Wolf'_ _proceeded to viciously maul Creevey and his thirteen-year-old son. Fortunately, Dennis Creevey, survived the attack with minor injuries. The boy, havign witnessed his father's death, managed to snap a_ _surreptitious photograph of father's killer. The police were able to identify the man as Fenrir Greyback, who was arrested and confessed to being the notorious serial killer, 'The Grey Wolf'_."

The reporter touched her ear gently, listening to a blue-tooth, and grimaced. She sat up and shuffled through a few papers, clearly ill at ease.

 _"Additionally, further investigation into the late Alvin Creevey revealed he was involved in the taking and distribution of illicit, underage pornography; this leaves to wonder if Greyback's attack was made out of cannibalistic cruelty, or a sense of vigilante justice - "_

Scoffing in disgust, Tonks reached for the remote and turned off the telly. She jabbed her chopsticks into the box of takeout lo mein noodles. "Didn't you do a project on - what do they call him - 'The Grey Wolf'," she mocked, flicking her chopsticks like quotation marks. "For your criminology class?"

Harry scrubbed a hand across his face, carefully maneuvering the pin in his mouth so he didn't stab his tongue. "I did," he spoke, making a notation in his notebook. It was filled with measurements, and Harry was clearly frustrated as he altered one. "The Grey Wolf is a violent individual, but justifies his urges by killing those he deems repellent."

Tonks made a humming noise around her mouthful.

"Hermione?" Harry glanced up at his model. The girl was trying her very best to remain still, but couldn't help the occasional twitch as he poked and prodded her with pins. He brushed his fingers against the straining fabric around her midsection, a few stitches pulling loose. "I'm going to ask this as nicely as I can; don't take this the wrong way. But have you been stress-eating again?"

Hermione pinched her lips at him. "Why do you ask?"

"You've gained a few inches," he said, not unkindly, merely stating a fact. "And I'm already having trouble with these dimensions. There's only so many secret pockets a jumpsuit can have."

With a conflicted huff, Hermione brushed back a curl, which had fallen out of her messy bun. Harry had insisted she wear her hair up for the exhibition. The recommendation had less to do with the ugly tangles her hair was constantly in and more to do with the annoyingly high collar he had attached to the jumpsuit. _"It brings out your cheekbones,"_ Harry had told her. Looking in the tall, thin mirror Harry had leaned against the wall, Hermione couldn't deny that she looked - _hot._

The jumpsuit was a shade of warm pink, springy and breezy. Wrapped around her waist was a convertible skirt, that - when she walked - seemed to billow behind her. There were no sleeves, merely a halter top that led to a band of ruched fabric that brushed against her cheeks. If Hermione ducked her head, she could conceal the lower half of her face, leaving only her eyes to bat seductively at her reflection. The only fault was her stomach, which she self-consciously raised her hands to cover.

"C - can you fix it?" Hermione asked, almost desperate.

With the heist's deadline quickly approaching, Hermione had begun to cheat on her heavily-enforced diet. She kept a hidden refrigerator in her room, filled with dairy-free ice cream and frozen chocolates. Her guilty pleasure. Hermione's parents, both of them dentists, would be horrified with her. _She_ was horrified with herself.

Harry, sensing the girl's panic, placed a calming hand on her hip. "Yes, yes, of course," he soothed, patting her thigh. "It's an easy fix, I'd just - I'd like it to _fit_ come March twentieth, alright?"

"Why March twentieth?" Tonks spoke up around a mouthful of takeout, trying to change the subject.

"It's the spring equinox," Hermione told her, the quirk of her brow making it seem _obvious._

"Yeah, yeah, I get that. I get there's some - I don't know - spiritual significance to equinoxes, but I don't think many people care. I've never _once_ gotten a 'happy spring equinox' card, and yet, somehow receive Hanukkah cards every year from - "

Hermione ignored her, and began to gesticulate empathetically. "The spring equinox represents beginnings and endings, life and death - "

" _Speaking_ of life and death," Harry said pointedly, sitting back on his heels, exasperated. "You'd better stop moving, or else I'm never going to get this done."

"What's the big deal?" Tonks asked from the couch. "So what, it's a little tight? I happen to clothes a bit tight," she gave an exaggerated wink. Hermione glared at her.

"If the suit is too snug," Harry carefully took a small scissors to the torn seam. "Hermione will be fidgeting all evening, bringing attention to herself - and we wouldn't want it to _rip,_ would we?"

Hermione flinched at the undertone of condescension in his tone. " _Sorry_ ," she snapped, pulling out of his grasp. "We can't all be ectomorphs like you, Harry. I can't help having curves." With that, Hermione stomped off into her room, angrily sweeping up the hem of the convertible skirt trailing behind her.

The door slammed.

Tonks sighed. "Come on, Harry," she scolded gently. "She's just been through a break-up with the Weasel, and this whole, 'the weight of our entire operation relies on your ability to walk in heels' is getting ridiculous."

Contrite, Harry collected his materials and dropped them onto the coffee table. He left the tape measure around his neck, and idly played with the metal tip. Tonks sighed at him. He looked like a kicked puppy. "Speaking of," she changed the subject. "How _is_ our third favorite redhead?"

"On a _date,"_ Harry said. "With Romilda Vane, an intern at the Daily Prophet."

From Hermione's room, they could hear her make an intelligible screech. "What? _Romilda?!"_

"Oh, she's upset."

"I'm not _upset,_ Tonks," Hermione huffed. Cracking her bedroom door open so they could hear better, she began to remove the half-finished jumpsuit. "Our break-up was perfectly mutual. I just think he deserves a lot better than that - that - " she struggled to reach the zipper, spinning in place. "Gossipy _wench,"_ she gasped out, the zipper finally yanking down. She hugged her ribs. "God, you're right," Hermione admitted reluctantly. "That was too tight."

Harry stuck out his bottom lip in a petulant pout, and Hermione couldn't help feeling a bit bad for snapping at him.

Harry had always been on the smaller side, having been stunted for most of his childhood and starved as punishment.

Hermione, in contrast, had a delightful relationship with her parents. They were strict when necessary, but kind and welcoming, and didn't mind that Hermione had always been _different._ She never went anywhere without a book in hand, and none of the other kids had _quite_ the grasp on vocabulary as she did. Other children bored her, and, very quickly, so did public school. Her parents attempted to send her to a private school that specialized in academic excellence, but she got in on a scholarship and was one of three bi-racial students. Hermione got along with a few of her peers, but all the others seemed intimidated by her drive and discipline.

She wondered if that was why Ron dumped her. He hadn't given much of a reason, just given her a sad little smile that contrasted greatly with the beaming grins he used to give her. There was nothing _wrong_ with Ron, not really. He was funny and attractive, a bit dull, but he seemed to find her lectures _cute._ Hermione wondered if it was about sex. Besides a few moments of hand-holding, they rarely touched. She thought back to their first date, pressed against each other in the movie theater because the chairs were too small. Ron, well, he was incredibly tall, and Hermione had rather wide hips.

Glancing down at her body, the top of her jumpsuit fallen to her waist, Hermione sighed. At least _Tonks_ found her curves attractive, even if it was a joke. She slipped off the rest of the outfit, and pulled on an overlarge t-shirt. When she returned to the living room, Harry was microwaving a plate of take-out, and Tonks was rifling through her purse.

"Are you going out?" Hermione asked her, timidly taking a seat beside her.

"What?" Tonks blinked. A smudge of sauce was on her bottom lip. Hands beneath her thighs, Hermione fought the urge to wipe it away. "Oh, no. No, but I have a gift for you," she grinned, and flicked out a tongue to wipe the sauce away.

From inside her bag, Tonks removed an object that was wrapped in an old handkerchief. She opened the flaps to reveal an antique hair comb, the gems splayed like the petals of a poinsettia flower. "I haven't gotten it polished, yet," Tonks apologized, turning the comb around. The deep red gems glistened like droplets of blood, and the smudged, off-yellow teeth of the comb seemed bronze. "I stopped by Aunt Narcissa's today to visit the baby, and she was getting rid of some more rubbish. I snagged this - " _stole it,_ Hermione's brain supplied weakly, but Hermione was too busy gaping to voice it. "I thought it would look pretty with your outfit. Um. Here." Pale, white hands thrusted it toward her.

Hermione held it carefully, thinking quietly her hands looked huge and dark, around the delicate comb. She nudged a loose gem with her pinky. It wiggled.

"It's old," Tonks explained. "A few jewels have fallen off a few times already - "

"I love it," Hermione said, touched. "It's beautiful. But it's too much - "

"You'll look beautiful in it," Tonks blurted. She clenched her hands in her lap. "You - I mean, you _deserve_ to get all dolled up after the year we've had," she gave a nervous laugh. Tonks had a habit of filling awkward silences with blabber. "I just - "

The two flinched as the microwave went off. Harry coughed, still standing in the kitchen. Hermione blushed, realizing how close she and Tonks had gotten. They were practically leaning into one another, breathing in each other's air, their rapid heartbeats aligning. Letting out a shaky breath, Hermione carefully set the comb onto the coffee table beside Harry's swathes of extra fabric. The colors matched gorgeously.

Harry echoed this sentiment. "That's actually perfect, Tonks," he gathered his plate of steaming food, and sat very purposefully between the two girls. He wasn't ignorant to their surreptitious glances and red cheeks. After all the cock-blocking they've done between him and Tom . . .

He shoved his fork into his mouth, smug. Harry continued as though nothing was wrong, getting back into business. "So . . . you said the jewels can be removed?"

* * *

"Fuck yeah!" Romilda snarled, throwing her hair back, victorious.

With a resounding _thump_ _,_ she knocked over a circular target with a rubber bullet. The target smacked backwards, and Ron could swear he heard wood splinter. He whistled appreciatively, obligingly holding her purse as Romilda collected her prize. She pointed excitedly toward an overlarge stuffed lion.

"Shouldn't _I_ be winning things for _you?"_ He asked, amused.

Romilda looked tiny with the stuffed animal draped over her shoulders.

"Don't kid yourself. And I'm keeping this." She patted the lion's snout. "Now. Pickle on a stick?" Romilda started forward without waiting for an answer.

After a moment, Ron doggedly followed after her; he wasn't afraid to admit that his gaze lingered a bit long on her arse in those tight, tight jeans.

Romilda was lovely. Absolutely lovely. Ron wasn't sure why Harry had seemed so reluctant to give him her details. She was remarkably pretty, confident, worked at _The_ _Daily Prophet_ (which was certainly more interesting than the library); and, best of all, she had seemed incredibly eager to date him. Essentially, all his standards had been met.

Ron laughed as he chased after her, long legs straining. Goodness, she was fast. Romilda darted through the crowd, disappearing into it. Ron kept track of her by following the burst of orange lion's mane bobbing above the masses. Finally, Ron found her at a food stand. She was waiting impatiently in line, a veritable well of energy, bouncing on her heels. "Thank god," she said, relieved. "You still have my purse."

"Oh, right," Ron untangled the strap from his fingers, and obligingly passing it to her. "But I thought - I suppose you want me to pay?"

The girl snorted inelegantly. "Honey. You don't have a job. Don't worry about it." While usually he would be jumping at the offer of free food, Ron looked down. It was their first date; wasn't the gentleman supposed to pay?

Romilda sighed loudly. "Oh, alright. We'll split, if it appeases your big, manly ego. What do you want?"

" _Everything,"_ Ron breathed, staring up at the menu. The smell of fried food and candy floss was incredibly enticing; even though he only dated Hermione for a month or so, he was sick of tofu and rabbit food. "Oh, god, deep fried ice cream. That sounds . . . both disgusting and delicious at the same time."

"I'll get it," Romilda grabbed his arm, pulling playfully. "We must have it."

A few minutes later, with his arms full of red and white checkered trays, Ron maneuvered his way to a sticky table. Romilda placed her stuffed lion across from them, and laid out napkins on the tabletop. Sitting beside her, Ron took a sip of the pop Romilda bought. The straw was curly and purple.

"That root beer was mine," she told him, schooling a very serious look on her face. "And now I'll have to toss the whole thing. I'm _terrified_ of cooties, you see." Which was clearly a joke, as she had already snogged him a few times at the very top of the Ferris wheel. _Tradition,_ she had insisted. They rode it three times, and each time was better than the last.

"Really?" Ron arched a brow. Grabbing a chicken leg from her tray, he took a liberal bite. "Mmm. Delicious."

Romilda rolled her eyes, and tested the fried ice cream. He watched her intently.

"Is it good?"

She smacked her lips, testing. "It's good," she smiled at their banter.

Ron liked her smile. Romilda had slightly crooked teeth and beautifully tanned skin, spotted with freckles. Her hair nearly rivaled Hermione's, but she kept it in neat, voluminous curls that Ron fought the urge to run his fingers through. Although Romilda and his ex-girlfriend were remarkably parallel in looks, that was where their similarity ended. Ron was sure that Hermione would never have enjoyed going to a festival like this.

The sun was going down, and with the neon glow of a carnival ride behind her, Romilda's curly brown hair lit up like a halo. She was pulled it up, out of the way, as she took a messy bite of her pickle, juices dribbling down her chin. He was sure Romilda didn't _mean_ to be suggestive, but the way she moaned around the large, juicy vegetable was -

She laughed as she cupped a hand under her chin.

Ron shook himself. "So - um. You work at _The_ _Daily Prophet._ What else do you do?"

"I don't know. I'm pretty good with my hands," she wiggled her brows. She laughed at Ron's expression. "I make jewelry, in my free time. See this?" Romilda pulled up her sleeve, and showed him a braided metal bracelet, inlaid with several small jewels. "I made that."

"You made that?" Ron repeated, mouth slipping open. "Wow. That's crazy. It's so pretty."

Romilda nodded, satisfied with his response. "I know," she shook her sleeve back down. "Jewelry is my _passion,"_ she said empathetically. "Journalism is just my career. Ms. Skeeter is an incredible influence, certainly. I made her a lime-green necklace that she wore to an interview with George Harrison; that issue was our most successful." She winced. "Though, perhaps that had less to do with my necklace than the fact he died shortly after; may he rest in peace."

The red-head snorted. "And the fact he was stabbed forty times by a man who thought Harrison was an extra-terrestrial. You know," he squinted an eye, and pointed a spoon at her. "I think I read that one. The headline was something sensational, like _STABBED BY PSYCHO. PARANORMAL MOTIVATIONS?_ "

She beamed at him. "You read the piece?"

Ron shrugged, sheepish. He shoveled a bite of ice cream into his mouth. "When Harry told me you worked at the _Daily Prophet,_ I caught myself up. Just in case it came up in conversation." He swallowed tightly. "Probably wasn't my brightest idea, to ask for archive copies of _The_ _Daily Prophet_ at the library where my ex works. Our break-up was mutual, so it was just awkward," he assured her quickly. "There's no risk of any crazy, jealous exes coming after you with a sharpened nail filer."

"Aw," Romilda pouted. "I was really hoping to fight for your honor."

Ron laughed.

They finished eating, tossing their food into a fly-infested rubbish bin. Ron felt sticky and full and comfortably sated. Romilda tweaked a thumb under his chin, rubbing off a smudge of ice cream. "Your face is a mess," she told him, smirking. "I'm gonna go to the bathroom, I'll bring you a wet paper towel."

"I'll wait here," Ron said, and they stopped in front of a public bathroom. Romilda handed him the lion, and took back her purse. Ron felt little more than an unpaid caddie. With a grunt, he hefted the animal over his head. He was sure he looked ridiculous, his hair blending perfectly with the lion's mane.

Ron bounced on his heels for a bit, and contemplated texting Harry on the progress of their date. Just as he dug out his phone, Ron heard a muffled shout. The door for the girls' loo was around the corner, largely secluded. Frowning, he took a tentative step towards the restrooms. Looking around, no one else seemed to have heard it. He took another step toward the bathrooms.

"Romilda?" he called out, hesitant. He nudged the door open, and peered into the dirty room. The tile was absolutely disgusting, a cockroach scuttling under the rusted sink pipes. Water was running from a tap, but the loo was abandoned. The bushes behind him rustled, and Ron twitched. "Hello?"

Hot breath puffed against his neck. _"Hello."_

His screams muffled by a gnarled hand, Ron was yanked back into the bushes.

The stuffed lion fell, abandoned, into the grass.

* * *

 ** _To be continued . . ._**


	12. Chapter 12

**_The Powerful_**

 **TanninTele**

* * *

 _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

 **II:**

"Right," Tom ran his hands down Harry's scalp, trying in vain to flatten the boy's curls. Harry smiled at him, a little smug, as the ringlets popped right back up. Tom scowled at the top of his head. "The thing about Griphook. He's . . . well, he's a hardass," Tom, lacking the desire to sugarcoat it, spoke bluntly. "He won't like you. He hardly likes _me,_ and once he realizes we're lovers, he'll probably be a touch homophobic. But you _must_ resist strangling him."

Harry batted Tom's hands away, and fixed his fringe so he could see. "Sounds like a delightful chap."

Dressed to the nines in a traditional, stiff, four-piece suit, Harry looked like the host of a 1970s game show. His hair was a mess, his tie sloppily done, and his posture lax. Tom wore the suit far better, the man's natural grace and towering height working in his favor; Harry bit his lip, and fought the urge to rustle Tom's perfectly gelled hair.

"I'm aware this sounds cliche, but you will let me do the talking," Tom commanded, his fingers twitching - the only indication of his hidden unrest. Harry arched a brow, wondering what could _ever_ ruffle this unshakable man. "This is a very big investment for me. If we can't get Gringotts to invest in our little _expenditure,_ we might as well call it off. His web of followers is almost as large as mine; I could go into the politics, but your eyes are already glazing over," he rapped two fingers against Harry's cheek. "Pay attention," he asked gently.

"Sorry," Harry said, sheepish. "It's just - even their recievingroomis decadent. I feel like I'm sullying the place just waiting here."

The gentleman's club was, rather unoriginally, called 'Gringott's Club'. It had been founded by Mister Griphook's great, great, great-something grandfather. The club catered to London's elite, and Griphook ran it with an iron fist.

A chandelier sparkled overhead and dark, polished hardwood was smooth under their feet. Numerous old, stern-faced men sat in cushioned chairs, quietly reading their newspapers and smoking spicy, imported cigars. Their silence seemed to echo, and Harry felt it was sacrilegious to speak.

Tom, however, completely ignored propriety - and the gentlemen's irritated glares - as he continued speaking. "Oh, they're all just a bunch of pompous old men. The worst they can do is threaten to sue your family and damage your reputation," he flapped a dismissive hand. "That's easy. Anyways," he continued, eyes narrowing. Tom tapped his polished shoe insessantly against the floorboards. "We will also need to procure a - ah, convincing _replicate_ of a certain stone, and Griphook's specialty is forgeries of all sorts. He can spot a forged painting in about three seconds, flat." His voice rose in excitement, and a balding man with a pipe stuffed between his lips briefly removed the instrument to shush them.

"Fascinating," Harry drawled in amusement, voice hushed. "Should I be expecting wedding invitations soon?"

"Shut it. I told you, he's horrible," Tom insisted. "He's just a particularly skilled individual, and I - "

The door they were waiting beside opened with a soft creak.

"Mister Griphook will see you now," a man spoke in a soft, polite tone. He kept his eyes lowered deferentially, and from the corner of his eye, Harry saw Tom's entire posture shift. Tom's expression seemed to shutter, from defensive and banterful, to the cold, collected crime lord Harry only saw on occasion.

Harry shivered, feeling - despite his better judgement - turned on beyond reason.

Now was _not_ the time.

Before they entered, the attendant raised a hand. "If you would please," he commanded quietly. "Turn off your cellular devices. Mister Griphook finds the chime of a phone, and society's dependence on them, rude and enormously trivial."

Obligingly, Tom and Harry fished out their phones and powered them off.

Nervously fixing his cufflinks, Harry followed Tom and the attendant into an office not so different from Tom's. The room was rather small, but had a tall ceiling and an amazing view over the city.

Sitting in a desk chair Harry could only describe as a throne, was a man so short Harry wondered if they were in the wrong room. Gregarious Griphook, in all his glory, was a midget of a man with salt-and-pepper hair, swept into a greasy comb-over. He had unnaturally white teeth and a pointed face that would be handsome if it wasn't trapped in a scowl. He exhaled a puff of smoke through his nostrils and stamped out a thick cigar, the edges sizzling and disappearing with a wisp of smoke. The man's dark, beetle-like eyes seemed to slide over Tom, settlimg on Harry. With an expression much like he'd swallowed poison, he gestured a hand.

"Sit," he rasped, with only the bare minimum of pleasantry. "And be merry. I would offer you and your companion something to drink, Thomas, but your little _concubine_ looks underage. Wherever did you find him? The playground?"

Harry fought back a gasp, and sat with stiff limbs beside Tom. The man's eyes lingered at the space between their chair and Tom scooted away. Harry tried not to feel hurt.

"My, my, Thomas Riddle," Griphook drawled, "What a true pleasure it is to see your face. Desperate, begging doe-eyes, and all."

Tom kept his face schooled, with only a single eyebrow arching. "I'm not begging yet, Griphook."

"But you will be," Griphook said, bored. "You need me. Of course you do, I'm a _commodity._ But the question is, are you willing to _beg_ for my services?"

Clearing his throat, Tom removed a folded parchment from his pocket, a compiled list of the expected expenses and what Tom was able - and willing - to compromise on. "I will not beg, but I am willing to negotiate. The Death Eater's plans for March the twentieth involve - "

"Death Eaters," the man scoffed, ignoring Tom's pragmatic explanations. "What a ridiculously paltry name. Did you come up with it?" his eyes narrowed, and Griphook seemed to read Tom like an open book. "Of course you did. _My,_ would your founder be disappointed," he tsked, shaking his head.

Tom frowned at him, but the man continued, clearly enamored with the sound of his own voice.

"'Death Eaters'. A once great fellowship reduced to an alliance of trigger-happy psychopaths, obsessed with the concept of _death,"_ he smirked, lips stretching nastily. "Lad, there are far more profitable ways to achieve one's ends. Drain a man of his wealth, his credibility," Griphook pinched a pile of ash, letting it crumble onto the gilded ashtray. "And he will be _desperate_ to do your bidding. I saw what you did to the poor, desolate Mister Malfoy. Ripped his reputation to shreds, and - for good measure - had him killed to tie up your loose ends. Clever. Very clever."

Tom blinked at the compliment. "Thank you, but - "

"But not clever enough," Griphook lifted a single finger, lips quirking in amusement. "I could see right through it, child," arrogance dripped from his words. Harry was a bit shartled at the sudden lecture. It seemed, for all intents and purposes, that Griphook believed _he_ could do better. Was the man an usurper?

"You were incredibly obvious, leaving a trail of bodies that lead right _to_ you."

Tom scoffed, his fingers clenched tight around the armrest. His knuckles bolded white and, beneath the table, Harry reached out to place a comforting hand on the man's tense thigh. "Such as?"

"Such as hiring the recently detained 'Grey Wolf' to kill a college boy out of _jealousy,_ and then letting the cannibal stew in prison when you promised him protection. After all, it was _his_ fault he let the Creevey boy live, wasn't it?" Griphook mocked, in a high, mellifluous voice that Harry supposed was supposed to be an impression of Tom. "He ought to be _punished_ for his recklessness . . . never mind that you've done the same."

Tom's high cheekbones flushed brightly. "That is _not - "_

"Your morals are mercurial, at best. You ruined the Malfoy family, killed innocents out of pettiness, and then turned around to punish those who were loyal to you. I can't determine if you're drunk with power, or with _sentiment,"_ he spat the word like a curse. "Either or, I'm not certain you deserve my business. If you're truly reliant on my sponsorship, I believe I at least deserve the privilege to speak with the ' _Death Eaters_ '," he scoffed at the name. " _True_ leader."

Tom steadfastly refused to look at Harry. He feigned confusion. "You're looking at him."

Griphook gave a sharp, disbelieving grin, and Tom visibly flinched. Harry stared between the two, truly bewildered

 _"Oh,"_ Griphook leaned forward, steepling his fingers. He was smug with knowledge, lording this power over the other. "Am I _really?"_

* * *

 ** _Unknown Location_**

Someone was shouting, high-pitched and muffled. Ron could make out a few choice swear words, screamed out desperately, before the noise abruptly cut off.

When the canvas bag was finally yanked away Ron's head, the first thing he noticed was the smell. It wasn't _unpleasant._ It was sweet like honey, but faintly musky. Soft particulates floated through the air of the old cereal mill, illuminated by golden rays of diminishing sunlight.

Dazed, Ron blinked rapidly and tested the bands around his wrists. The plastic cut into his skin, tight enough to do some damage if he struggled too hard. He was in a rickety old chair, and seated right beside him was s gagged and bound Romilda.

The last he recalled, they had been taken from the festival grounds, dragged into the bushes. Ron remembered darkness, and being shoved into the back of a rattling vehicle. He wondered if they had beaten into him a bit. He felt sore all over, and when he licked his bottom lip, he tasted blood.

"Romilda?" he muttered, looking towards his date. She was tied up beside him, curly hair in disarray and one brown eye swollen. A dirty rag was tied around her lips, the fabric stained with blood. The beginning of a nasty bruise was growing beneath her eye, and Romilda seemed _pissed._

She glared harshly as a scarred, skinny man stepped away from them. He grimaced at them, almost apologetic, the scars on his face stretching obscenely.

A low chuckle filled the air. Ron tracked it to a shadowed corner, where a massive figure leaned against the wall.

"Weasley, eh?" his voice was gruff and raspy like a smoker's, tinged with a rough Scottish accent. "Let's hope you're a bit more polite than your lady friend."

"W - what?"

" _W - what?_ " the man stammered mockingly, shifting in the darkness. "God, you're quite dull, aren't you? I think Riddle could do better. But then again," he stepped into the light. "Riddle hired _me_. His standards can't possibly go lower."

There was something vaguely familiar about him, although that might've been his resemblance to the rabid dog Ron's brothers once tried to tame. The man was all grey hair, rotted teeth and muscles. He was shirtless, showing off an impressive array of faded tattoos and a wiry treasure trail. His pants, hanging low across his hips, were prison-issued grey cotton.

"Who are you? What do you want?" Ron demanded, voice only slightly tremulous.

"Who am _I_? Well, I'm disappointed. I rather hoped _everyone_ would know me by now, seeing as my name and face has been plastered across the telly." He boasted. The word _braggadocious_ \- a phrase Hermione had been fond of - flashed through his mind. "I'm practically a celebrity; it's a delightful change. While I liked the anonymity of serial killing and assassinations, being declared a public enemy is much more _fun."_

"Hey. Hey!" Ron realized. "You're the guy who killed that Creevey kid! I did an assignment on you for criminology - " he cut off, face going pale. "Oh, god."

Fenrir Greyback, the infamous serial killer, 'The Grey Wolf', grinned. "Then you must know all about me."

" . . . How . . . I thought you were in jail."

Fenrir arched a grizzled brow. "Oh, so it hasn't hit the news yet? I can't blame them. It's quite humiliating once you realize how pathetically easy jailbreaks are - that is, _if_ you know the right people, and have enough _friends,"_ He smiled unpleasantly at the man behind them. His teeth were crooked and yellow. "How rude of me. I haven't introduced you. Remus, say hello to our guests."

The stranger, Remus, murmured a vague greeting. He wore the full prison jumpsuit, the sleeves rolled up his his elbows, and nervous patches of sweat stained his armpits. The only thing intimidating about him was the scars, lining his face and cutting it nearly in half. One of his eyes was hazel, while the other was a milky grey, like a full moon behind clouds. "Goodday."

Under Fenrir's insistent stare, Ron quelled. "H - hi."

Romilda, still bound and gagged, remained infuriatingly quiet. Fenrir stalked over to her, and pulled down her gag.

"Say _hello,_ little girl."

Romilda heaved a breath, glaring furiously. "Fuck you."

With one, gnarled hand, he yanked her hair back. Romilda shrieked, the sound strangled. "You have quite the barbed tongue, my dear. You wouldn't want me to _rip_ it from your pretty mouth, would you?" he warned, leaning over her. His hot breath was rank and wet. The delighted gleam in his eye told Ron that Fenrir would just _love_ to follow through on his threat. "Use your manners."

"Do it," Ron whispered to her, hushed. "Please."

Romilda's gaze flickered to him briefly, before reluctantly fixing on Fenrir's 'friend'. "It's a _pleasure,"_ she spat.

Remus looked pained. "Indubitably."

"Excellent," Fenrir said, pleased. "See, even for a ruthless killer, I know _manners._ Unlike this little princess," Fenrir released Romilda's hair, running a soothing hand across her scalp. His ragged nails scraped against her skin, and Ron could tell she was fighting back tears. "She tried to bite me when I grabbed her, did you know?"

He crouched suddenly behind her, leaning in to brush his nose against the arch of her throat. The muscles clenched and fluttered, as Romilda tried pulling away. He growled in her ear, his breath rancid and hot, like an animal's. "I like a little spitfire, but _I_ do the biting around here, is that _clear?"_ He punctuated this by snapping at her throat, not quite making contact, but enough to have her flinch away. Romilda trembled from head to toe, from a bitter mix of rage and fear.

Fenrir gave a throaty laugh. "Calm yourself, little girl. I won't hurt you. You were merely _bait,_ to lure this stupidly brave boy to your rescue."

"W - why me?" Ron asked, trying desperately to divert Fenrir's attention. "What did I ever do to you?"

The man gave a twisted smirk. "My pack has seen you entering and exiting Riddle's 'secret' headquarters for many weeks now. I've done my research. You're one of six boys from a large, obnoxious brood, and you're utterly inconsequential, aren't you? Unintelligent, untalented, unappealing. Easily replaced. No onewould care if you suddenly . . . went missing. You're clearly the weakest link in Riddle's massive chain of _sycophants,"_ the man spat the word like it was poison on his tongue. "And predators always go for the weakest prey first."

Fenrir moved towards one grimy window, and ran a contemplative finger across the glass. He licked the dirt from his pointer, nibbling on the skin.

Ron sent a glance at Romilda. She was panting slightly, eyes red from withheld tears. She nodded imperceptibly at him, reassuring him that - while shaken - she was physically fine. While Ron watched Fenrir, Romilda kept an eye on Remus. The other man was motionless, silent, standing in the corner without a word.

"Of course, in years past, _I_ could be considered one of Riddle's little _flunkies,_ just as desperate for his approval." Greyback smiled, and if the man wasn't a psychopath, Ron would have called it self-deprecating. "I worked for 'im. Yeah, managed a few assassinations here and there. But hired, vigilante work is so _boring._ Alvin Creevey was lower than dirt, certainly, dealing those videos of poor girlies and boys; I enjoyed mauling him. His son walked in on us. He was just . . . collateral damage. Delicious, succulent, collateral," his lips peeled apart, and Ron felt sick to his stomach.

"Everyone just _assumes_ I'm a vigilante; did you ever stop and think, maybe the corrupt and the rich merely _taste better?_ They beg so prettily, _swearing_ to change their ways. It was a good deal. In exchange for assassinating those ignorant pigs, Riddle would protect me from the judicial system," his mouth twisted in a vile scowl. "But he became _distracted,_ and _betrayed me!"_ His snarl echoed throughout the mill. Remus, in the corner, suppressed a flinch. "He left me in jail to rot, and so . . . I took a better offer."

"Let me guess," Romilda drawled, speaking against her better judgement. "Now you're out for revenge. God, did I _step_ into a bloody film? That was so _clearly_ monologued. Did you practice that in front of a mirror?"

Fenrir's expression shuttered with rage. "Little girl - "

She tugged on her binds. "This has been a delightful conversation, truly - but how does kidnapping Ron prove a point to this Riddle person if - as you said - _'no one would care if Ron went missing'._ You said it yourself, he's inconsequential. What makes you think killing us would hurt Riddle? Or, what if - once we were dead, Riddle wouldn't find some way to take you down, too? Leaving a trail of bodies isn't all that clever."

Fenrir's frown deepened. "Didn't think that far ahead, did you?" Romilda said, pitying.

"I - " the criminal shut his mouth, before growling. He stalked toward a sliding metal door. "I must attend to some business," he spoke, forcing dismissiveness. "Remus, _watch_ them - especially that _girl!"_

He shoved the door shut behind him, and Ron released a breath he hadn't known he was holding. He jumped in the chair, the legs thumping fruitlessly against the ground. "Ugh. These are tight," he murmured.

"Hey - kid," Remus stepped towards them, raising a knife. "Just because I don't - I don't _want_ to hurt you, doesn't mean I won't."

Ron immediately stilled, staring down the quivering shiv. It was made of a worn, blue plastic and bound with twine.

"You guys - you aren't all that prepared, are you?" Romilda asked, distracted the man. "You're still in prison wear, you carved that knife out of - what, a sharpened toothbrush?"

Remus swallowed tightly, and twisted the blade nervously. "We didn't have a lot of time," he admitted. "Fenrir was in a hurry."

"You don't want to be here," Romilda continued, soft. She batted her long, dark eyelashes, her eyes glistening in the sunlight. "You're not a kidnapper, or a killer. What did Greyback do? Force you to come with him? Blackmail you?"

The man issued a shaky breath, his nostrils flaring. Somehow, her words seemed to open a floodgate. "I - I've never really hurt anyone before," He admitted. "I got in for disorderly conduct and indecent exposure. That, and a general disrespect toward authority landed me with up to six months in jail." His expression twisted, his face going slack. "I got pushed around a lot, but I did my time, dutifully. I was looking forward to going home - but then someone picked a fight with me, and things got out of hand. I was suddenly subjected to another three months. I was _desperate_."

"So Fenrir offered you an out," Romilda said in dawning realization. "Did he offer this to many others?"

Remus shrugged a bony shoulder. He was a thin man, almost emaciated, and every movement looked like it hurt. "I . . . I knew my way around the prison. I made myself a map, knew all the nooks and crannies. I was useful to him, but now I'm indebted," his tone, so incredibly soft, was barely detectable.

"How horrible," Romilda purred. She leaned forward in the chair, and Remus unconsciously pulled the knife away. It was he true. He didn't want to hurt them, not even accidentally. It was Fenrir who snatched them off the streets, brought them here - Remus was, unfortunately, just along for the ride.

Romilda's eyes glinted. "You deserve a lot better than that pathetic, steroid-pumped sadist. You could help us - cut off these binds, and turn him in. I'm sure the police would be _thrilled_ to have that - that _beast_ behind bars. I work at the _Daily Prophet_. If they don't release you back into society, I will _personally_ ensure that your story gets told. Bad press, and the fury of the people will have them releasing you _with_ compensation. You'd be free, and rich - you could get your _life_ back."

The man was trembling now, and Ron could see the _want_ in his mismatched eyes. Remus' dry lips parted, and he glanced down at the bonds around Romilda's wrists. "I - " his brows drew. "God, I _can't!"_ He snarled, tossing aside the shiv. He yanked his hands through his hair, self-hating and manic. Ron wondered if he was high on something. "Greyback will find me, he will! With his new _sponsor,_ I'd never be free. I'd be considered a traitor."

"Honestly, though, who helped him escape jail?" Romilda changed the subject swiftly, her voice turning coy, inquisitive. "Fenrir is an idiot. It must have been someone powerful -and clever, like yourself."

The man waved a hand, dismissive. "It was German man, that's all I know. The Aryan groups in prison raved on and on about him. Reminds me of an old, infamous _Führer,"_ Remus said wryly, halting in place. His complexion seemed to pale even further, scars standing out like brands. "He liked the way Greyback 'purged the world of the weak and unworthy.' If you think Greyback is bad . . . "

"He sounds insane," Romilda agreed. "You can't possibly endorse that."

"W - well, of course not," he was clearly conflicted. "I - I don't, I swear."

"Then why are you _helping_ them?" If she was able, Romilda would have thrown her hands in the air. "Please. _Please._ If you let Greyback get away with this . . . Ron and I, we won't be the last innocents you'll watch die. Or be forced to kill."

Remus pursed his lips, eyes flicking between the closed door and the children. Ron watched their exchange with thinly veiled awe. He couldn't believe it was _working._ "Fine!" Remus snapped, the fight leaving his body. "Fine."

Reaching into his pocket, he removed Ron's cell phone. It was already a cheap flip phone, but now the screen was cracked as well. Rom bit back a groan.

"Er - um, here," Lupin awkwardly placed the phone into Ron's bound hands. Ron struggled not to drop it, blindly flipping it open. "Make a call, get some help. But keep it quiet," he warned. "You have five minutes. I'll watch the door."

The man disappeared swiftly, swearing beneath his breath.

Romilda leaned her head back, breathing heavily. "I can't believe you were flirting with him," Ron whispered furiously to her. "Our _kidnapper_."

"It helped, didn't it? Honestly," she hissed. "Use your brain. I'm young and pretty, and they could do some rather nasty things to me if I'm not on their good side."

Ron took a moment to marvel at her.

"Don't look at me like that," Brown eyes rolled. Romilda blew a lank strand of hair away from her face. "This isn't something to be jealous over," she informed him.

"No - it's just - you're really brave, you know that?"

Romilda considered it, and agreed. "I know. Now, who is this 'Riddle', anyways, that got us into this mess? What are you involved in?" Her eyes were bright with peaked curiosity.

"I'll tell you later, once we get out of this," Ron stalled, nervous. "Hush, we're wasting time." He craned his neck, and bit his tongue, pulling up his contact list.

"Who're you calling? Call the police!" Romilda insisted.

Ron swore under his breath as his finger slipped to the number just below George's name. Groaning, he hung his head back, and raised his eyes to the heavens. The call went through, the soft ringing filling their silence.

"Who did you call?" Romilda demanded again.

Ron grimaced.

" _Hello_?" a voice, confused and questioning spoke louder. " _Hello_?" The first time, the microphone had been muffled under Ron's thumb.

"Er - yeah. Hermione?"

 _"Ron,"_ Hermione said evenly, on the other end. Her tone was annoyed, and a tad suspicious. _"Aren't you supposed to be on a date?"_

"Uh, yeah, but - "

 _"I can't really hear you. You have terrible reception. Can you call back later?"_

"I can't, exactly," he shifted in the chair, trying to place the call on speaker. "This is difficult," he grunted. "Sorry, my hands are - er - rather tied. Behind my back, in fact."

 _"What?"_

"Hurry. _Up,"_ Remus banged on the door. Ron cleared his throat.

"Uh - so, erm, how are you?" He asked politely, voice pitching.

"For God's sake," Romilda jerked forward in her chair, fed-up by the pleasantries. "Hermione, is it? My name is Romilda Vane," she enunciated carefully. "R - O - M . . . nevermind, it doesn't matter. This is life or death. We've been kidnapped by Fenrir Greyback, the Grey Wolf. No, seriously," she insisted. "Anyways, although my head was covered at the time, we traveled approximately six miles from the London spring carnival, to the east - " she glanced at the sun setting in the grimy window. "And now, we're in an old cereal mill, and I can hear train tracks from here. Does that help?"

Ron could hear the frantic scratch of a pencil against paper. _"Immensely. Are you and Ron - "_

"Hurry it up," Remus hissed.

"There are at least two men with weapons, one incredibly dangerous, the other not-so. Just, uh, bring back-up, if you can, and first aid - " Remus shoved open the door, barking _'time's up_ _,' -_ "Just, please, come soon." her voice petered off with a desperate, pleading tone that betrayed her inner fear.

With Hermione frantically trying to regain their attention, assuring them that _"I'll find you!"_ Remus snatched the phone away, and snapped it shut.

"No more talking," he said, pointing a warning finger at the two of them. "No _funny_ business."

"Cross my heart," Ron said sarcastically.

Rolling his eyes, the man shuffled back out into the hall, leaving them alone. Remus seemed twitchy and nervous, and Ron was rather glad that Romilda stayed quiet. He doubted they could push the man any further.

"How did you - " he cleared his theoat, trying to calm his rapid heartbeat. Everything just happened so fast. And now their lives were in the hands of a _librarian_. "How did you remember all that stuff? Everything you said to Hermione."

"I'm a journalist," Romilda said, as if that explained everything, voice trembling and eyes red-rimmed. She leaned back, suddenly drained, but managed to quirk a small smile. "It's our job to be annoyingly perceptive."

* * *

 ** _To be continued . . ._**


	13. Chapter 13

**_The Powerful_**

 **TanninTele**

* * *

 _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

 **III:**

Hermione, heart beating rapidly, stroked her fingers through Tonks pink hair. It was a tad greasy, the strands tangled and unwashed, but Hermione didn't mind - seeing as Tonks' head was _in her bloody lap._

Unaware of her friend's intense sexuality crisis, Tonks was utterly enraptured with the movie playing on their little television. Her eyes reflected the flickering television screen, colors dashing across hazel irises.

The lights were dim and the loft smelt of burnt popcorn. A pile of dirty dishes in the sink had risen to a damn mountain; on top, a still-hot pan was caked with scorch marks and mottled kernels.

Tonks had finished the bowl single-handedly and was damn proud of the fact, insisting they both deserved some down time from their life of crime. Tonks called it a 'girls' night in'; an incredibly rare occurrence with Harry as a roommate. Despite his proclivity for school girl skirts, Harry made it clear that he was _not_ a girl.

Tonks laughed uproariously at the telly, and Hermione flinched her fingers back, afraid she'd been caught. Instead, Tonks pushed her head back like an insistent cat. Amused, Hermione continued her ministrations.

It was then that Hermione realized she had forgotten the movie's plot entirely. The current romantic comedy was some saccharine hetero-normative nonsense, and - to be honest - watching the pretty girl and even prettier boy on screen flirting unabashedly beneath an umbrella in the rain made her sick to her stomach.

The persistent buzzing of her phone snapped Hermione from her daze.

"Hm," Tonks said, pouting as Hermione pulled her hand away. "Do you have to get that?"

"It's Ron," Hermione whispered back, flipping it open. "Hello?"

"Didn't you guys break up, though?"

Hermione plugged her other ear, shushing her. "Shut up. Hello?"

 _"Er - "_ a familiar voice, muffled and distant spoke. " _Yeah_. _Hermione?"_ Ron's voice shook, as though on the verge of tears, and Hermione wasn't ready to be on the receiving end of a grown man sobbing.

"Ron," Hermione sat straighter, upsetting Tonks' place on her lap. "Aren't you supposed to be on a date?"

' _Mute that, would you?'_ she mouthed to Tonks. Despondent, the long-limbed girl clambered off Hermione and snatched the remote. She wore an overlarge t-shirt, stolen from the back of a truck transporting unsold band merchandise. That had been a thrill.

"I can't really hear you," Hermione interupted, annoyed at the scratchy, halting signal. "You have terrible reception. Can you call back later?"

Just as Tonks was readying the television to press 'play' again, Hermione jerked upwards and lunged toward Harry's sketchbook. She found one of his colored pencils, but the tip snapped and she hurriedly found another. Her handwriting scrawled across the parchment, a stream of unintelligible words and symbols.

Tonks tilted her head, curiois by natute. She had no clue why the words 'cereal' and 'trains' were underlined. Was Hermione making a shopping list?

"Immensely," her voice was hushed. "Are you and Ron - "

Hermione's mouth slammed shut, and with an expression of intense focus, she ripped out the paper. The person on the other end was practically begging, voice high and helpless. _"Please, come soon,"_ is all Tonks caught before the connection was hastily cut.

Bottom lip trembling, Hermione clenched her phone in one hand and the note in the other.

"What?" Tonks asked, sitting on her knees. "What is it?"

"It seems," Hermione said, reaching down to grab her laptop. She booted up Google Earth, and exhaled sharply through her nostrils. "My ex-boyfriend has a history of horrible first dates."

Tonks gaped at her, before closing her mouth in a wry smile. "That's witty, really, but it doesn't explain a wit," Tonks informed her.

"Turn on the news," was Hermione's distracted elaboration. "The Grey Wolf has escaped."

"What?" Alarmed, Tonks changed inputs and flipped to a local station.

 _". . . The public is warned that Greyback is likely armed and extremely dangerous. A special hot line has been set up, and any sighting of Greyback should be reported immediately - "_

"How did he even escape?" Tonks asked, lips parted in bewilderment. The newscaster showed a picture of him in prison grey, teeth snarled and his inmate number card snapped in half. "God, he's ugly."

Ignoring her, Hermione clicked away at her computer, researching old mills and train tracks nearby; she had two locations in mind, and couldn't decide between the two. Finally, desperate, she scrawled out both addresses and shoved off the couch. "Grab your coat, and I don't know - your switchblade."

Struggling to yank on her jacket, Hermione dialled Harry, hoping that the boy was with Tom. She swore as it went straight to voicemail.

"Harry! Answer your damn phone," she berated. "Greyback has escaped prison and Ron's been taken hostage, god knows why. I don't know what the hell you have to do to convince him - get on your knees and suck his smarmy, cowardly prick - " she spat. "But Tom _better_ send some reinforcements to the old Honey Hive cereal mill in East London. I know this has something to do with him, and once I find out - " she trailed off, voice sharp. "Call me back."

She snapped the phone shut and turned to find Tonks fully dressed; hair thrown back, flexible black pants beneath her t-shirt and weathered leather jacket hugging her chest. If Hermione wasn't already fighting for control of her emotions, resisting panic, she would've been caught breathless. Instead, she bit it down and alloted herself one cursory glance up and down Tonk's beautiful, confident figure.

Tonks smirked at her, and spun her knife between long, nimble fingers - a motion that ought to be illegal.

"If Harry and Tom isn't able to help," she said, conveniently, having eavesdropped on the one-sided conversation. "I'm afraid we'll need a few more weapons in our arsenal. Catch." Thankfully, Tonks had clicked the switchblade shut before tossing it to Hermione. She caught it with a grunt and watched as Tonks reached into the coach cushions.

"What? Is that - ?"

"Tom's secret stash," Tonks confirmed, casually pulling out two loaded handguns. "He hid them here, just in case Harry gets into any trouble."

Fuming, Hermione pressed _call_ on her phone. She snuck it back up to her ear, ready to berate both Tonks and Harry at the same time. "Oh, so _both_ my roommates knew about the loaded guns in our couch," she snarked, "Guns which could have gone off at anytime - "

"Nah, the safety's on," Tonks said idly, waving the gun at her. Hermione flinched back, and Tonks laughed. "Good thing I didn't tell you where Tom keeps the World War Two-esque suicide pills. "Tonks swore she could see Hermione's eye twitch. "Kidding, kiddding," Tonks said, placating. She wasn't kidding. She zipped up her jacket, hiding the guns inside. "Let's go hunt a wolf, yeah?"

Expression tightening, Hermione nodded. "Yeah."

Tonks keys jangled as she snatched them from their hook. "We're taking my bike."

"Wha - _no!"_ Hermione insisted, darting forward to keep up with Tonks' confident strides. "Not the bike _and_ the guns! We're not - "

"Hooligans? Oh, Hermione, just admit it." She grinned, the smile vibrant with the thrill of the chase. "We _totally_ are."

* * *

Head tucked in the crook of Tonks' shoulder, curls suppressed by the bike helmet and a death grip on Tonks' waist, Hermione was petrified with fear.

She kept her hands firmly away from Tonks' breasts, clutching the fabric of Tonks' straining leather jacket.

Tonks seemed to be enjoying herself, flying at breakneck speeds down the highway. Hermione lost count of the wailing horns they'd left in their wake. Eyes squinted shut, she only lifted her head to shout the occasional directions. Soon, they left the city's boundaries and approached the outlying industrial district. A cluster of warehouses and factories billowed smoke into the air, and the dirty sensation of smog made Hermione's skin itch.

"The mill is abandoned, but we're looking for a yellow silo," she leaned forward to shout in Tonks' ear. Tonks revved the bike in response, skidding them off a ramp.

The street was silent as they pulled up beside a stout, derelict warehouse. A rusted white van was abandoned in the alleyway, and Tonks parked beside it. She kicked down the stand, carefully extracting herself from Hermione's grip.

"Is this it?" she asked, staring up at the boarded-up windows and the faded _Honey Hive_ logo on the crumbling brick. It seemed just the place that a helpless modern maiden would be held hostage. Except, in this case, the damsel in distress was Ron. Tonks wanted to make a joke, to brighten the stresses, concerned expression on Hermione's face, but Hermione had already hopped off and was making her way to the door.

She rattled the lock, frowning. "Locked from the inside," she mused, turning reluctantly to Tonks. "Can you just - shoot out the lock, like they do in movies?"

"Uh, no. The bullet would definitely ricochet," Tonks shook her head. "And then we'd have a more pressing issue than your little boy-toy."

"Don't call him that," Hermione winced. "He's just my friend." Taking in a deep, calming breath, she began to contemplate the building's exterior, hands on hips. "There has to be some sort of fire escape."

While Hermione wandered around the warehouse, Tonks kicked at a spare chunk of rock. "You wouldn't go running empty-handed and without backup into a hostage situation if he was 'just a friend'," she said under her breath, but in the quiet, her voice travelled.

Hermione spoke from afar, tone soft. "Well, I've got you, don't I?"

Tonks felt her cheeks go red, and she bit down on her smile. A rustle of wind swept through her hair, and Tonks lifted her face to the darkening sky. The rumble of trains clicked and clattered in the distance.

"Ah!" Hermione exclaimed victoriously. Her shoes crunched against the ground as reached toward a scaffold suspended in the air.

Zagging upwards was a series of platforms and ladders, but the lowest ladder was lying in a twisted pile of rusted metal at her feet. She scowled tightly, too short to reach the scaffolding. Suddenly, pale hands wound around her hips, and Hermione was lifted upwards by her taller and stronger roommate. She grabbed the ladder tightly and hoisted her legs up and over. She peered down at Tonks. "Think you can manage the jump?"

Tonks made a scoffing noise. "Don't start doubting my amazing parkour abilities now," she tossed a gun up to Hermione, and tucked her own into her waistband. Hermione handled the weapon carefully, pinching the handle with her thumb and forefinger.

"Ready? Watch out." Tonks gave herself a bit of space, before running and jumping off the wall with a grunt. The metal rattling, she caught the platform's edge and - with Hermione pulling her up by the elbows - triumphantly grinned. "Easy as cake," she said, breathless.

Hermione's knuckles were white as she clutched the handrail. The added weight only made the fire escape more unstable. Hermione gestured with the gun held loosely in her other hand. "I don't even know how to shoot this thing."

"It's simple," Tonks raised her gun, aiming at the clouded moon. "Center yourself, prepare for the kickback, aim and shoot. _Pew, pew,_ " she mimicked. "You'll do great." Clapping Hermione roughly on the back, Hermione stumbled back, the fire escape shuddering.

She was horrified. "Don't _do_ that."

Tonks ventured on and up, ascending the ladder until she found a window; the glass was grimy and the boarding planks torn from the frame. She peered through a streak in the grime, and spotted a blur of red hair. "Oi. Found him," she said, almost casually. "Good job, 'Mione. We got it on the first try." Tonks peered back and saw Hermione carefully climbing the ladder, expression pale. It seemed as though panic was finally sinking in. Tonks took in a deep breath. Hermione would _not_ be happy with this. "Um . . . I think we'll have to break the window."

Hermione's face twisted at the thought of property damage, but her answer surprised Tonks. It wasn't so often Hermione supported Tonks' crazy ideas. "Do what you have to," she said, resigned.

Methodically, Tonks tucked her hand into her sleeve, clenched her gun and braced herself. Swaying back and forth twice, she closed her eyes and forcefully shattered the glass with her shoulder. Sharp pain erupted down her arm. Following her momentum, Tonks rolled into the warehouse, dust picking up in her wake. Shards of glass were embedded into the nice leather.

Standing, she shook them out and looked around the room, as though barely fazed.

"T - Tonks?"

She glanced up at Ron, smirking at his flabbergasted gape. In the darkness, Tonks looked like an avenging Valkyrie, glass partiles and dust shimmering around her in a cloud of miasma.

Hermione, in contrast, tentatively crawled through the window. She slid off the windowsill onto the floorboards, maneuvering around the shattered glass. She stilled, looking entirely uncomfortable, faced with her ex-boyfriend and his grudgingly impressed date. "Hermione?" Ron stammered. "When I called you for help, I expected you do alert _Tom,_ not -"

Tonks coughed into her hand, distracting them. "My _god_ , it's dusty in here. Alright, ladies, lets get you out of those binds."

She removed the switchblade from her bra and crouched behind Ron. "So. How's your date been?" she teased, slicing his bonds with little effort. The plastic ties fell away, and he flexed them gratefully.

"Just splended," he grumbled.

"Oh, and _you're_ Hermione's replacement, aren't you?" Tonks took care of Romilda, cutting the rope with a bit more violence than necessary, and considered that - with the length and sharpness of her fake nails - Romilda probably could've cut the binds herself. Perhaps she hadn't wanted to break a nail. "Ron's a real catch, isn't he?"

"He was a perfect gentleman," Romilda agreed, massaging her wrists. She shot Ron a dark glance. "Up until he got us kidnapped and threatened by an overenthusiastic wolf-man and his puppy."

"Puppy?" Tonks wrinkled his nose. "What do you - "

The _shink_ of a door opening alerted Tonks. Quick as a whip, she swung around, gun in hand and fixed it on her ex-boyfriend's chest.

"Excellent fucking timing," Romilda commented.

It took a moment for Tonsk to recognize him. Remus' hair was buzzed short, he was about two stones smaller, and had at least one new scar since she last saw him. Although his kind eyes and trembling figure should've calmed her, Tonks only stepped closer, raising the gun to his head.

"D - Dora," he stammered, lifting his hands. His sleeves fell back, and Tonks could see a shiv strapped to his forearm.

"Drop the weapon," she commanded, voice unwavering. "Do it, now."

Moving carefully, eyes fixed on her gun, he reached toward the knife and tossed it aside. Hermione scrambled after the shiv - wincing at the worn, germ-ridden plastic handle - and tossed it out the open window.

"Dora," Remus spoke again, softer. "If I knew he was calling you - "

Tonks mocked his tone. "You would've . . . what? Served your innocent hostage a bit more damage than a split lip? What the _fuck_ are you here? I thought you'd be out of jail by now."

"Technically," Remus paused. "I am. Just not _legally."_

There was a brief, tense moment, in which Hermione was sure Tonks would shoot him for his lip. Instead, Tonks snorted, and began to lower the gun. "I'd hoped prison would've shaped you up a bit, Remy. Given you - I don't know - a _backbone_. Or was that to much to hope for?"

"You haven't changed a bit, Nymphadora Tonks," he said, almost fond. "Dyed hair, armed to the nines." Remus nodded at the shattered glass, exuding an air of calm he certainly didn't feel. "You always knew how to make an entrance."

"Yeah," she twisted her face at him, and raised the gun back up. "And you always knew how to ruin my day. Listen up," she barked. "I'll shoot you if I have to, Remus," Tonks was kind enough to warn. "Where is Greyback?"

Fear darted through his one, good eye, and Remus pointed a trembling finger. "He's in the office, on the phone with his benefactor. He's already angry, and once he learns you guys escaped . . . I can't believe he didn't hear the window shattering."

Hermione and Tonks exchanged a glance.

"Let's cut our losses while we can - "

" - let's kick his arse," they spoke at the same time, Tonks with a wild gleam in her eyes.

Hermione glared.

She gestured pointedly at the window. "We can just leave through the window," she insisted. "We _really_ don't have to go barging down there, guns a-blazing, to go head-to-head with a serial killing cannibal."

"You might not have to," Tonks said grimly, cocking her gun. Remus gaped at her. The safety had been on while she'd been aiming at him. "But _I_ do."

With that, she spun on her heel.

Hands on hips, Hermione stomped after her, bickering the whole while. "You can get your adrenaline rush _later._ Go bungee-jumping, or - I don't know, join a marathon - "

As they disappeared into the hall, Ron thrusted a thumb toward the window. "I'm - uh - gonna go," he told Romilda.

She smirked, and beat him to the sill, hopping onto the fire escape. "I'm way ahead of you."

Ron lingered behind, thrusting out an expectant hand at Remus. "Phone," he demanded, blandly.

Unconsciously, Remus dropped the device into his palm and muttered an absent farewell. Ron vanished down the fire escape.

A good minute passed before his brain caught up to his mouth.

"Dora!" Remus shouted, tripping over his feet. He bounded down the steps, catching up to the girls outside the factory office. It overlooked the mill, and the door was suitably intimidating. "Wait. I - I wanted to - "

"Fuck off, Remus," Tonks shouted over her shoulder. Hermione gasped at her language.

" _Tonks!"_

Rolling her eyes, Tonks grabbed Hermione by the hand and tugged her close. "Take a good long look, Remus. I've moved on."

Adrenaline pumping through her, Tonks planted a deep, intense kiss on Hermione's lips, shutting the girl up. She swallowed the girls' gasp, and moved until her hands - gun and all - were splayed across Hermione's back. After a moment, Hermione reciprocated, melting against her, their bodies slotting perfectly together.

Muffling a swear, Hermione pulled back, not realizing her hands were tangled in Tonk's pink hair. She released her grip and smoothed down the cowlick, leaning her forehead against Tonks'.

"Is now really the time?" she asked, soft and amused.

Tonks met Hermione's eyes, the chocolate irises blown with desire and surprise. She kissed Hermione again, lips stretching in a smile. "We'll continue this later," she whispered, hot air brushing against wet lips. "Now. Are you gonna help?" she directed at Remus, face flushed and body tingling.

Remus had averted his eyes, staring at the ceiling in embarrassment. "I would," he cleared his throat. "But you threw out my knife."

Tonks sniffed, clutching Hermione's hand in hers. "You're a coward," she told him. "I hope you're happy with the life you've chosen."

With that, she shoved open the door to an abandoned office, the lighting dark and a tall figure standing in the middle.

" - _ja, es ist_ Greyback," he spoke in halting German. G - R - E - Y - for god's sake," he glanced over his shoulder, seemingly unbothered by the two, gun-toting women standing at his door. "Just tell your motherfucking _boss_ not to have an exclusively German-speaking secretary," he spat into the phone. "You dumb, fucking _fraulein - "_ shaking his head, he lowered the phone from his face.

"Ah, so the little boy called for reinforcements," Fenrir mused, shutting the burner phone. "Unfortunately, you caught me at a rather bad time. I suppose they've escaped, then?" Instead of anger, or devastation at the foiling of his plot, Fenrir laughed at them, voice sharp and teeth even sharper. "They won't get far. I have friends, you see - friends that would like to bring the Death Eaters down, as slowly and painfully as I do. At least you made it easy for me. Tom's _best,_ serving themselves up to me on a plate. And such _tender_ appetizers, as well," he purred, readying himself in a crouch.

Hermione couldn't stop staring at his teeth. He didn't need guns or knives; his bare hands were weapons. He could tear out her throat with a single bite -

"Take the shot, Hermione," Tonks insisted, under her breath. "It'll be anti-climatic, but get him while he's monologuing."

"Yes, take the shot, little girl," Greyback teased, twisting his furry, silver head at them. The muscles in his legs tensed, rippling up his body as he flexed his fingers. "You'll be so _juicy._ All moist and _fat - "_

Hermione saw red. "You do _not_ call me _fat!"_ Mind buzzing, still distracted by their passionate kiss, Hermione aimed wildly; she shut her eyes, planted her feet and pulled the trigger.

Greyback screamed like a girl.

* * *

By the time Tom and Harry left Gringott's Club, it was nighttime.

They hailed a cab in silence, Harry stealing glances at his blank-faced boyfriend. Tom was deep in thought. Harry was almost hesitant to ask - what in the name of _hell_ had just happened?

Expelling a long breath from his mouth, Harry removed the top three buttons from his dress shirt and leaned back into the tilled back seat. He loosened his tie and tossed it onto Tom's lap. "For a fashion major, you're awfully reluctant to dress up," Tom spoke quietly. He untangled the tie from his long fingers, clenching the fabric tightly before letting it fall. This was good. If he was able to crack jokes, Harry needn't walk on egg shells around him.

"So . . . " Harry turned his head toward him. "Are we not going to talk about what happened back there?"

"That's correct," Tom said shortly. "It cost an arm and a leg, not to mention my dignity, but he's backing us, and that's all that matters."

Sighing, Harry dug out his phone and pressed down the power button. Tom would take his embarrassment to the grave if he had to.

It took a good five minutes for the screen to light, and one by one, his phone pinged for each missed message.

"Jesus. Hermione called me, like, a hundred times," he was exaggerating. It was closer to three, but she'd left voicemails all three times. Harry typed in his voicemail access number, and plugged one ear. He stared out the window, watching streetlamps and night walkers blur past. Tom looked up as Harry gasped, reaching for Tom's leg. He clutched it in distress.

"Oh, god. Ron's been taken hostage," he whispered, air expelling in panicked, soft breaths. His green eyes were wide and luminescent.

Tom moved fast, turning on his phone. "Put in on voicemail. I can arrange an emergency task force - "

"No, wait," he lifted a finger, concentrating intently. He pressed speakerphone.

Hermione's shrill voice lectured. _" - Guns which could have gone off at_ anytime _\- "_

"Hermione's found your guns," Harry told Tom unhelpfully. The voicemail ended and the last one automatically began. Rustling, shouting and the sound of bullets were all they heard. "Buttdial," he murmured, before realizing. "Holy shit."

Tom grunted, leaning forward to shut the barrier between the curious cabby and them. In his other hand, he rapidly typed out a text. "Call her," he demanded.

Harry deleted the voicemail, and quickly rang her up.

 _"Took you long enough."_

"Hermione? Thank God you're alright. How is everyone?"

Breathless, Hermione reassured them that all was well, and the authority had been contacted.

 _"Ron called the police. Greyback is being taken to the hospital because, somehow a bullet became lodged in his left testicle,"_ she sounded uncharacteristically smug. " _No one else is hurt; just a few scratches here and there, nothing serious. In fact, Ron and Romilda are currently snogging behind a bush,_ " Hermione informed them, tone darkening with disgust.

Distantly, Harry could hear Tonks' snide comments. _"Oh, they're just taking advantage of the adrenaline rush. Come on, 'Mione. Everyone else is getting in on the fun."_

Hermione seemed to push her away, speaking fondly; _"Quiet, you. Not now. I'm on the ph -_ oh _,"_ her voice faded with the sound of something wet smacking, and Harry quickly ended the call.

"Well," Tom said, blinking in vague surprise. He stared down at Harry, a slow smile breaking past his cool exterior. "Seems that's under control. Your roommates are more capable than I realized. I taught them well," Tom said, a hint of pride in his tone.

Harry snorted, tucking his head into the crook of Tom's shoulder. "Yeah, sure, _Professor_ Riddle. Think they're ready for the twentieth?"

Tom grimaced. "God, I hope so."

All was well.

For now.

* * *

 ** _To be continued . . ._**


	14. Chapter 14

**_The Powerful_**

 **TanninTele**

* * *

 _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

 _Chapter warning: fluff and hot lesbians._

* * *

 **IV:**

"He's actually quite cute," Narcissa mused, gently bouncing the newborn in her arms. He had one tiny hand wrapped around her thumb, and the other placed bracingly on a warm bottle. "When he's not wailing for milk."

Scorpius Zabini was an attractive child, born of Serena's son and the famously beautiful actress, Astoria Greengrass. His hair existed in charcoal cowlicks, his skin like rich chocolate. His button nose was speckled with little freckles that Narcissa took the opportunity to count when he fell asleep in her arms. There were twenty-one in total.

"Hm," Serena powdered her own freckles, blinking rapidly in the vanity mirror as concealer floated around her. Her hair was piled up in a complicated bun that seemed easy when Serena deftly twisted it up and around. Her deep purple gown was made of a smooth velvet, a leather belt constricting her already slim waist. Her stilletos were discarded by the bed, the heels sharp enough to impale someone. Narcissa had a brief, heated flashback of the time Serena had worn them to bed; with a baby in the house, it was hard to squeeze in sex between Serena's work, child-rearing and sleep. But it was well worth it.

"He must take after his _other_ mother." Narcissa said with only the faintest bit of tiptoed around Astoria's name, both disapproving of her sabbatical to Havana.

As Scorpius suckled at the bottle's nip, Narcissa considered with smugness that Astoria was most certainly experiencing a consistent leaking in her breasts, perhaps pumping the milk every so often only to throw it away. Scorpius would always be in the back of her mind, a haunting of _what might be -_ but Narcissa was secure in the knowledge that _they_ were Scorpius' mothers now. A united front, protecting him from the world. Certainly, if Astoria decided to reappear in their lives, they wouldn't _discourage_ a friendly relationship between Astoria and her son. But Narcissa was far too attached to the boy to let him go so easy.

"Perhaps. But, no, you're a good boy, aren't you, Andy?" Serena twisted in her seat, giving a fond, dark-lipped smile to her grandson. Her lashes were voluminous and her lips stained a deep purple that brought out the flecks of brown in her eyes. "Mummy was just teasing."

Out of respect to Astoria, they kept Scorpius' given name but called him 'love' and 'darling' and _'piccolo andrea'_ \- little man - as often as possible; the latter was quickly shortened to Andy, in honor of Narcissa's late sister.

Standing with a yawn, Serena stretched her arms and padded barefoot toward them. Narcissa moved her legs so Serena could sit ar the end of the bed. Serena arched one delicate foot and carefully strapped on her heels, Scorpius blinking at his _nonna_ , letting the nip slip from his mouth. Tsking, Narcissa pushed it back in, and he immediately continued his meal.

"Are you _certain_ you will be safe tonight?" Narcissa asked, stretching her legs back to gently nudge Serena.

Serena peered over her shoulder, arching a thin brow. "Doubting my abilities, love?"

"I'm doubting your ability to stay awake," Narcissa said bluntly. " _I'm_ exhausted, and _I_ don't run a fashion industry while streamlining as a part-time assassin and a full-time mother."

"No," Serena agreed, leaning forward with a slight smirk. "But you manage Grimmauld with an iron fist - just as ludacrive as my business," she said, teasingly pressing a kiss on Narcissa's lips. Sharp nails carefully trailed down the pale, prominent cheekbones; touch tender, so not to leave a mark on that smooth, perfect skin. Scorpius, trapped between them, gave a soft protesting noise.

"All will be well, Cissa," she assured, pulling back to wetly kiss Scorpius' cheek. The boy tolerated it regally. "Take a nap, little hellion. Try not to wear your mother out, hm?"

Narcissa huffed, flipping a strand of hair from her face. "You'd best come back alive," she warned, before pausing. "And without a warrant out for your arrest."

Entirely serious, Serena nodded. "I have a reason to be careful, now. Hm, romantic entanglements are such an _inconvenience,_ don't you think?" She teased. "Playing peekaboo is really just as scintillating as robbing a bank or assassinating a prime minister."

Narcissa wasn't even vaguely apologetic. She looked down at Scorpius. Stomach sated, his intensely dark blue eyes began to drift shut. "Pick up some more diaper cream on your way home."

Snorting, Serena finally slipped on her other shoe. She stood and swayed toward the door, hips entrancing. "No Zabini has ever been afflicted with something as frightfully unseemly as a _bum_ _rash_ in generations."

"He's a baby," Narcissa reminded her, icy eyes soft and amused. "He doesn't have a choice in the manner."

* * *

Nervous beyond reason, Hermione fidgeted in the backseat of the rented limousine. An errant lock of hair fell into her eyes, and she twisted it idly between her thumb and forefinger. She met the gaze of the chauffeur in the rear view mirror.

"You look gorgeous," Tonks said eagerly, her face open, calm and devoid of any make-up beyond concealer. She had dyed her hair a sleek, unremarkable brown for the occasion. With her low-brimmed military cap, grey suit and thick fake glasses, Tonks was nearly unrecognizable. She even changed her eye color with a pair of contact lenses, murky green eyes blinking back at Hermione with a familiar determined gleam. "And you'll do absolutely fine."

Slowly, Hermione released a breath and lifted the loose curl up into her ruby hair comb. The jumpsuit matched perfectly, and Hermione paired it with a number of costume jewels that Romilda Vane had made specially for the operation.

Romilda's access to _The Daily Prophet_ and her artsy hobbies had proved invaluable to the Death Eaters. She and Ron were, amazingly, still together. It appeared a shared trauma did wonders to their relationship skills, not to mention their eerily accurate foreplay and role-playing. An accidental butt-dial (Ron was prone to those) had Harry in a panic - _was Romilda a spy, and was she holding Ron hostage in their bed . . ._ oh. Oh, God. Horrified, he'd swiftly hung up, and had told no one except Tonks. And then Tonks told everyone.

There were a few close calls. As the heist grew closer, Ron was away more often, ditching dates with sheepish, guilty expressions and poorly thought-out excuses. After a lost deposit on hot air ballooning, Romilda had enough.

She ' _convinced'_ him to introduce her to Tom by withholding sex and teasing him, only to back away once he was flushed and bothered with a solemn _'you owe me.'_

With an extreme case of blue balls, he snuck her into _T_ _he Hog's Head -_ or, _attempted_ to sneak her in. Of course, Aberforth had noticed immediately, and Tom was waiting for them at the entrance with crossed arms and murder on his mind.

Romilda, a clever woman, recorded their conversation and Tom's thinly-veiled threats, swearing that she would leak Tom's identity to the press if he didn't _shut up about paperwork and let her join._

Exasperated, grudgingly impressed and used to blackmail when it came to hiring criminals, Tom believed he handled the ordeal with grace and steadfast professionalism

She was initiated within the hour, introduced to the others and her recording destroyed. Or, at least, the one copy Tom knew of.

Romilda brought in handmade friendship bracelets the next day, claiming they all would be the best of friends . . . _or else._

Tom never wore his, but - after an intense conversation with the twins, Harry, Hermione and Tonks (Ron was excluded due to a conflict of interest) - decided she would assist them in stealing the Philosopher's Stone.

Hermione dragged herself from her thoughts as Tonks slammed on the brakes to avoid running a red light. Usually, Tonks would be ignoring traffic laws left and right, but Tom had warned her against drawing undue police attention.

"It's not _me,_ I'm worried about," Hermione sighed, irritated. She wasn't even lying. Not really.

Their task force was becoming bigger and bigger, and alterations were being made at the last second. The more people involved, the more privy they were to human error. One misstep, bad timing, a forgotten cue - they could bring months worth of hard work crashing down.

Not for the first time, Hermione wondered why Tom would trust them with this. Harry, Hermione, Tonks, Ron and Romilda - they were just college students and interns.

They weren't trained. They weren't criminal masterminds. Not _all_ of them, at least.

Hermione snuck a glance up at could understand why Tonks was an asset.

The girl was savvy and skilled, entirely in her element as she excitedly tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. She was impulsive, self-confident, beautiful - Hermione could go on for days listing Tonks' best qualities. She could understand why Tonks would fit in with the Death Eater's.

Harry, too, was charming, sly and one of the loyalist men she knew; in a heartbeat, he would put his life on the line for those he , Tom was head over heels for him, protective as hell, but able to maintain a healthy relationship despite Tom's more . . . illegal past times.

Tonight, Harry was remaining with Tom at _The Hog's Head,_ running reconnaissance and manipulating matters from behind the scenes. He was _useful._

Without Harry, Hermione wouldn't be here, in this dress, and Tonks wouldn't have found her 'one true calling' (as she'd waxed poetically one night.)

That made her wonder. Without Hermione, would this all have still been possible? The simple, uncomplicated answer was _yes._

She wasn't necessary. Despite her vast storage of knowledge, she wasn't omniscient. Hermione wasn't a great actress, she had a moral compass that was almost debilitating at times, and she certainly wasn't a good shot. Only a short while ago, she shot her first bullet, lodging it into the left testicle of Fenrir Greyback. While _hilarious_ and wildly praised by her peers, even _that_ was a fluke. She'd been aiming for his leg, to slow him down, and had flinched upwards right before pulling the trigger. She had nightmares of that bullet missing Greyback and hitting Tonks instead, both girls dying a brutal death at the filthy hands of a cannibal.

Tom had an entire arsenal of trained assassins, thieves and chaotic good troublemakers at his disposal.

Why _her?_

Even without Hermione, Serena Zabini could've been convinced to go undercover alone. Tonks would have no entanglements holding her back. Ron and Romilda probably would have never have been dragged into this mess -

And Hermione would be alone.

She'd be just a librarian assistant, high-strung, insecure, _lonely._ She wouldn't have Harry as a confidant, Tonks as a - as a _whatever_ they were.

Hermione swallowed tightly, pulse thrumming wickedly in memory of their shared kisses, their late nights together, curled up in Hermione's bed. If Hermione never met Tonks, she'd still be deeply in the closet, repressed, depressed and missing out on something _wonderful._

Almost as if reading her thoughts, Tonks gave Hermione a quick smile in the mirror, pulling up in front of Grimmauld Place. "We're _here,_ " she sang. She sent a quick text to her Aunt Narcissa. "Serena will be out soon. Best cleanse your mind of all those self-doubting thoughts now before 'the games begin'," she quoted, snickering.

Oh, God. It really was happening.

Hermione leaned her forehead against Tonks' seat, taking several frantic breaths. She felt a bit queasy. The rational side of her conscience slowly began to seep in, providing steadfast reassurance, encouraging her to place her head between her knees as she swallowed back bile.

It was no good wondering her use, her necessity when, clearly, _something_ about her made Hermione worthwhile - to Tom, to Harry, to Tonks.

She didn't know _what,_ yet, but she supposed . . . Hermione nodded to herself, resolute.

She supposed that tonight, she'd find out.

"Wicked," is all Hermione heard, before she looked up and saw Madam Zabini swaggering out the front door.

Serena was god-like in shimmering velvet, her hair extensions plaited in a gorgeous up-do that revealed razor-sharp cheekbones.

If Hermione wasn't sure of her sexuality before, she was now. Jealously, she glanced at Tonks, who watched Serena in much the same manner of awe. Hermione felt a pang in her chest and nearly folded in on herself, when Tonks glanced back with a playful smile; the smile Hermione had fallen in love with. Tonks shrugged a slim shoulder. "She's like . . . _Beyoncé,"_ she said. "But you look _way_ hotter."

Pleased, Hermione's cheeks flushed the color of her jumpsuit. With a _click_ of the rear left door, Serena slipped into the limosine, smooth legs slotting into the small space. Hermione moved over diligently and gave her a shy smile.

"Hello, girls," Serena said smoothly, removing a pocket mirror from her grey hand-bag. She prodded at her lipstick with the pad of her finger, fixing a non-existent smudge. "My apologies. I was saying goodbye to Narcissa and - well, it got a bit . . . heated," she winked at Tonks. "You two understand."

Hermione gasped, affronted. "You _told_ her about us?"

"I bragged to nearly everyone on my contact list," Tonks said unabashedly. "Hermione. Don't give me that look. You're certainly worth gloating about."

Serena watched them, eyes soft. "Ah, the honeymoon stages. Adorable. Don't worry, even when the shiny veneer begins to wear off, and you vegin to bicker every ten seconds, the make-up sex will still be amazing."

"We _already_ bicker every ten seconds," Hermione grumbled, crossing her arms.

"Hm. I suppose I know how the sex is, then."

Putting the car into drive, Tonks smirked at Hermione's clear outrage. She changed the subject, taking pity. "How's the baby? You know, Cousin Tonks is always available to babysit." Hermione snorted quietly from the backseat. Tonks made an affronted noise. "What? I'm great with kids."

Serena leaned her head back. "Narcissa and I might just take you up on that. Parenting is different than it was twenty years ago. Its apparently frowned upon now to dope your baby with rum to get a good night's sleep."

The scary part was, Hermione wasn't sure if she was joking. But as Serena eased herself into conversation, complaining and cracking sardonic jokes, Hermione had a stark epiphany.

Despite her deadly passions and intimidating beauty, Serena Zabini was no goddess. She was passionate, loyal and courageous beyond belief, but she wasn't infallible. She was fucking exhausted - that much they could tell, even behind her copious makeup. In the dim light of the car, her fingers stained with lipstick, a spare eyelash on her cheek, she was just . . . human.

As was Tom, as were the twins, as were Harry, Tonks and Hermione. They were smart, determined, and frankly _greedy_ humans, willing to do whatever it took to get the job done.

As Tonks cracked a joke and Serena bit out a muffled snicker, Hermione felt herself relax.

They'd be just fine.

* * *

When they reached the heavily patrolled exhibit, showcased in the outskirts of London city, Tonks told them to get their game faces on.

The building was an architectural masterpiece amidst skyscrapers, affixed with a large garden and a driveway for guests to be dropped off at the door. It was a ballroom for the elite, and Hermione felt out of place, just in the drive.

"Fashionably late, eh?" a security guard, peering out of a booth, gave Tonks a quick once-over, glaring.

"Terribly sorry," Tonks put on a demurring, deeply thick Irish accent. "There was an incident on the way here," she lied. "We're her now." The less information, the better.

He took their invites through the open window and inspected them shrewdly with a small torchlight.

"Do hurry up," Serena drawled from beside Tonks, thrumming her nails against her knee. It was astoundingly easy for her to play the part of a rich bitch. "I'm famished.

Watching her movements carefully, Hermione mimicked her pompous expression, leaning boredly against the window.

The guard gave a thin smile, handing the card back. "Enjoy the exhibit," he said sarcastically, clapping the car's roof. Tonks slowly pulled through the gardens, the setting sun casting a gorgeous gleam across the bubbling fountains and pure-white, early blooming lilac bushes.

She drove slowly down the drive, reaching a large set of doors, intricately carved. A sign reading _Magic is Might_ in sparkling golden font directed them inside.

"Good luck," Tonks said mildly, unlocking the doors. She watched carefully as her passengers ascended the marble steps. The skirt of Hermione's train rippled behind her, and the girl waved an idle hand behind her, lips pressed in an expression Tonks recognized - it was the expression Hermione wore moments before pulling the trigger, castrating Greyback. She was fucking ready to raise some hell.

Tonks blew her a kiss.

Fighting proud tears, she sidled around the corner of the building. Tonks parked beside a large rubbish bin; the only thing even vaguely unclean about the entire building. Releasing the brake shift, Tonks brought down the small overhead mirror and removed the military cap from her head.

Her hair fell in a sheen of dark hair, extended and straight, much unlike her usual short, pink waves. She rather liked the new look. Tossing the cap aside, she opened the glove compartment and removed a thick, heavy tool belt, a black ski mask, and of course, a gun. Just to be safe.

She'd almost gone with a fanny pack, but Harry found the idea horrifying and couldn't bare to watch her attempt to buy one at an old woman's garage sale. _'A tool belt would be just as effective!'_ he had told her, green eyes wide with the very idea of a fashion _faux pas._ Tonks only smiled mysteriously at him, infuriating him more at her seeming lack of fashion sense.

 _Please,_ Tonks thought, stepping out of the car. She checked her reflection in the glossy limousine exterior. In the all-black suit, clunky tool belt and all, she looked damn _hot._

There came a muffled cough, and a polite pounding noise. Rolling her eyes, Tonks checked to insure no one was watching.

Tonks had methodically timed their late arrival, to insure everyone else had arrived and the security guards were lax. However, that security guard gave the impression of being the sort to tase Tonks at even the smallest perceived misdeed. Thankfully, the car was hidden out of sight and in the shadows, but even the walls had eyes.

Glancing up at a security camera tucked discretely into the corner, Tonks gave it a thumb's up. From a distant vehicle, George faithfully switched off the camera and at least two others in her vicinity. The blinking red light halted, and Tonks swooped around back of the car, throwing open the trunk.

She looked Colin Creevey up and down. The kid, weedy, blonde and pimple-faced, was curled up comfortably with a superman pillow beneath his head, an open bag of crisps in his lap and his phone illuminating his greasy face. For Colin to agree to this, all she had to do was pay him half in advance and set up a wifi hotspot, and he was golden.

"Who was that girl with you?" he asked around a mouthful of crisps, having been privy to most their conversations, due to the poor soundproofing of the interior walls. "I watched her walk away through the keyhole - she has quite the sway to her hips," he said lecherously.

In the past, she may have agreed and cracked a euphemismistic joke about how those hips certainly didn't lie . . . but Hermione was _hers_ now. And Tonks wasn't one to share.

Glaring, she helped the boy climb from the luggage compartment. He brushed the salt off his clothing, a nearly-identical suit to hers, except his was wrinkled and stained. "Curiosity kills the cat, Creevey. She could shoot your balls in."

His eyes lit up. "Oh! So _she's_ the one who shot Greyback in the cobblers? Wow."

"Yeah, she's also my girlfriend," she scowled, bringing the ski mask over her head. She hoped it made her look intimidating, but the kid only seemed amused.

"You look like you make a hobby of raiding convenience stores. Hey, to finish the ensemble, just put your hand in your pocket to pretend you're armed - " he proceeded to mimic the action, saying _'pew, pew!'._

Tonks yanked the 9 mm pistol from her waistband and cocked it, the sound echoing. "This look fake to you?" she waved it in his face, the boy's mouth falling open.

"Well," Colin composed himself, safe in the knowledge the gun wasn't _really_ meant for him. "That works too."

Getting the hint his company wasn't wanted, he held his hand out for his payment. Tonks forked over nearly a hundred pounds - stolen, of course. Licking his pointer finger, though it was greasy enough from the crisps, he counted them out. "Alright," he hummed, pleased. "Thanks for this, and thank your girlfriend for me. That son of a bitch she shot killed my dad and mauled my baby brother."

"Your dad, a child pornographer," Tonks reminded him, frank and unamused.

He palmed the cash, shrugging uncomfortably, looking pointedly at the gun she'd reholstered. "We all have our faults."

Tonks released a sharp-toothed smile, not ready to fight him on this right now. Little idiot still needed to grow up quite a bit. "I guess I'll see him in hell, then. _Go,"_ she gestured to the car. "Get out of here, before they get suspicious. You're a good kid," she added. "I hope this doesn't kick-start your life of crime."

Walking backwards, Colin saluted her. Hopping in front of the limo, he whistled, fondling the polished, leather bound steering wheel. " _Sweet_ ride."

"Lucky for you. It's yours for the next three hours," Tonks said over her shoulder, approaching the brick wall of the _Magic is Might_ exhibition. "Bring it back by midnight, Cinderella."

" _Hey!"_

Ignoring him, Tonks lifted a hand to her bluetooth, flicking the little switch to turn it on. "Bubblegum Bitch, in position," she, using a loose brick as a hand-hold. Good thing she was an expert at recreational rock climbing. Wow. So very fortunate.

Quietly, Hermione chimed in, tone hushed. _"Shakespeare and The Black Widow in transit. We're entering the exhibit."_

 _"Er, I'm here as well,"_ Ron said awkwardly. _"With George - sorry, sorry - 'The Holy Ghost,"_ he said, irritated. _"And 'The Love Doctor', too . . ._ _and, um, well. I know I should've gone before, but I kind of have to pee."_

Six feet in the air, dangling from a window sill, Tonks groaned.

* * *

 ** _To be continued . . ._**


	15. Chapter 15

**_The Powerful_**

 **TanninTele**

* * *

 _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

 _Chapter Warning: lots of fire and implications of domestic abuse. Not my best chapter, as I had a doctor's appointment today for a kidney problem and I haven't been feeling well. Regardless, I hope you enjoy the heist's build-up, at least._

* * *

 **V:**

The exhibit was bustling when they entered, shiny spotlights glinting off glass displays. The shimmering gown of a woman dressed in silver nearly blinded Hermione

Polite commentary washing over them, the room was filled with warm bodies and a susurrus of chatter. Soft music flowed from a distant orchestra, the human of violins and the whistling serenade of a woodwind.

Hermione was in awe.

Portraits and stone tablets lined the walls, one showing a beautiful, naked Babylonian goddess, the Queen of Heaven. Beside it, a self-portrait was made of 'The Fat Lady'; supposedly, a Grecian mortal courtesan of Hermes. She was depicted as incredibly self-indulgent, a lover of food and of men. It was painted on a plank of wood in gray and indigo, with only a spot of red - apparently, her own blood - to portray the drunken flush of her cheeks.

Safe behind velvet ropes were numerous artifacts, spanning thousands of centuries and representing many different cultures. A book with wrinkled pages, a sword made of pure gold, a gnarled, mummified hand . . .

Little plaque-cards read the history of each item, their mythical origins and their eventual discovery and restoration. Hermione bowed over the small inscription of a supposedly cursed Opal Necklace, the milky stone gleaming like a sightless eye. It was originally given to the consort of an ancient, Brother's Grimm-esque prince, wrapped lovingly around her throat for only a day before a tragic horse-and-buggy incident claimed the woman's life. Since then, it had inadvertently witnessed the deaths of nineteen more. It was found buried in a garden by a woman named Katherine Bell, who suffered a deadly seizure three days later, and -

 _"Hermione,"_ Serena whispered urgently in her ear, masking her annoyance with a smile. "It doesn't pay to become distracted."

Hermione nodded, sheepish, and tore her eyes from the exhibit. She looked upwards, under the guise of utmost, open-mouthed, stupid wonder. The ceiling of the ballroom, itself, was a work of art, made in recognition of Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel. While it wasn't domed, the flat roof was painted with heavenly images, the crown molding a border of brilliant gold. A trembling diamond chandelier cast sparkles of light over them.

Tilting her head, Hermione estimated if the golden, honey-comb ceiling vents would be large enough for Tonks to slip through. They were, with room to spare.

She brought a finger to her ear, speaking softly. Serena, greeting the other guests, moved closer to Hermione as though they were having a conversation. _"The nearest access point is directly above the 'Fat Lady'. Bubblegum Bi - "_ she swallowed, not wanting to finish the vulgar code name. _"She'll need at least a minute extra to reach the Mirror."_

Her eyes trailed to the Mirror of Erised, standing tall as the exhibit's masterpiece. It's golden frame was twined with flowery symbols and runes, the looking glass almost smoky with age; in it, the crowd's reflection was distorted and grimy. At the peak of the mirror was a ruby the size of Hermione's hand. The exaxt color of oxblood, it was jagged and imperfect, but somehow majestic in it's flaws.

"It's beautiful," Hermione told Serena truthfully, _sotto voce._ "I wonder how they - "

"Gossiping already, ladies?"

A man, with a shock of pepper hair reaching down to his chin and a golden-skinned woman at his side, sidled up to them. His grin was wide, annoyingly cheerful, while his wife looked bored out of her mind. Hermione couldn't understand how anyone could be unaffected by the sheer _history_ around them.

"Amos Diggory," he introduced, squinted gaze fixated Serena's trim figure, though he offered his hand to Hermione. His sweaty palm glinted. "And my wife, Reba. You are?"

Serena smiled blithely, the corners of her mouth tense. She answered for Hermione, who had folded her hands behind her back in utter refusal to shake his hand.

"My niece, Jean." For her alias, they had decided on Hermione's middle name, to maintain a sense of anonymity and general commonness. No one blinked twice at 'Jean', while the less common 'Hermione' raised a few eyebrows.

"Ah, I should've guessed a family resemblance," he clucked his tongue. Hermione and Serena risked a glance at one another - although they were both dark-skinned, Zabini's family was Italian and Hermione's from Trinidad. There was no resemblance, other than that, but they were relying on the ignorances of others. "Though you - ah, certainly fill out your dress a bit more than your aunt, dear," his eyes finally pulled away from Serena's beauty to linger on Hermione's breasts.

Hermione's brows furrowed, but the man _just kept talking._

"It's a dime a dozen to find young 'uns interested in this stuff," Amos flapped an idle hand. "I'd have invited my son, Cedric, if I thought he'd enjoy it. But the boy would rather spend the night with his girlfriend, if you know what I mean," he winked, delighted. "Ah, young love. I almost thought the boy was queer, until he come home with his girl. Though, she _is_ rather tomboyish - she wants to be a police officer! Can you imagine?" he barked a laugh, as though the idea was ludicrous.

Beside him, his wife twitched in poorly concealed resentment. She attempted to pull her gloved hand from his elbow, but he seemed to be a strong man beneath the layer of softness. "Do you have someone special in your life - er, Joan?" Even that, he couldn't get correct.

"Yes," she said lightly.

He smiled, very intrigued. "O-ho! What lucky man - "

"Woman," Hermione interrupted. "I'm in a delightful, loving relationship with a _woman._ Sir."

"I am, as well," Serena added, delicately taking Hermione's elbow in a show of solidarity. "Me and my partner have a child together, in fact. A son."

"O - oh," Amos gaped. He swallowed tightly, inching backwards ever-so-slightly. He latched onto her last few words. "Another son? At your age?"

Despite Serena's serene, unwavering smile, he seemed to process his mistake. He coughed into his hand, hot and wet. "I'm certain, after so many years of marriage and tragedy, that you wish for some companionship. But is that _arrangement_ . . . very . . . erm . . . conductive to the boy's growth?" he stammered through the second, burying himself into an even deeper hole."With no fatherly influence-"

"I assure you," Serena said. "That my partner and I are certainly _man enough_ to rear a child. I don't suppose you'd understand that, would you?" she let the moment linger, for a moment, and let the dark gleam in her eyes speak for her. Amos gaped, incredulous.

"Your dress - it's very beautiful," Reba said quietly, trying to change the subject. Thrill, however, was evident in the slight quirk of her lips.

Hermione's hands smoothed the gown gratefully. "My friend, Harry, made it."

"It's lovely," Reba tried to continue, before her husband forcibly tugged her away, returning to his wits.

"Let's speak to the Abbotts, shall we, love?" Amos said with a forced smile. "It was - ah - good to see you again, Serena," he glanced at them - between Serena's brows, as if afraid to look in her eyes. He seemed to forget Hermione's name once more, and simply nodded shortly, pulling his wife toward a crowd of blondes. Serena's gaze lowered to Amos' grip on his wife and her pained expression. Her smile tightened, ever so slightly.

They left. Smiling freely once more, Serena leaned towards Hermione, air brushing against her ear. "I believe I've chosen my next victim. Do you think Reba will object?"

Hermione bit her lip, and considered his under-the belt insults, masogyny and homophobia. "Not in the least."

With that, they continued mingling; and thus began the excruciating small talk.

* * *

"The Black Widow and Shakespeare are in sight," Fred said, peering out the staff-only door. "Entering the dining hall now." He spoke quietly, uncharacteristic for the boisterous, roguish man. But he was ' _in character',_ and _when in Rome . . ._

He slid a hand back, checking his reflection the the door's diamond-shaped, rubber framed window. With his hair sleaked back in a dark, dripping gel, he was likely breaking a dozen kitchen health codes, but he looked like a sexy, douchey cooking competition host. Dressed in a costume-like uniform, he felt rather distinguished in the double-breasted black uniform, collar patterned with houndstooth dress-shirt and sleeves cuffed to his elbows. They'd even made him shave his arm hair.

 _"Good, Rodent,"_ Tom spoke in his ear, pleased. _"Things are on-time, then?"_

"Yep," he popped the 'p', turning his back on the door. It swung shut, enclosing him in the kitchen, which was nearly as full as the exhibit. Fred puffed out a sigh.

He wasn't quite sure about his mission here today; Fred was no chef, barely able to make a bowl of macaroni and cheese without adding too much milk. Someone, currently, was flipping a delicious-smelling steak on a grill, while another was chopping a carrot with inhuman-like speed. He would _not_ like to be on the other end of that knife.

"By the way," Fred added, staring at the knive's wicked sharp edge. "These code-names are lame. I want something cool, that makes me seem rakishly handsome," he drawled. "Like Rapier, or - "

"Talking to yourself?" a nasally voice came from right behind Fred.

He spun around, gaping down at a short, skinny man with a clear case of Napolean complex. The man's pointed nose was lifted in a vain attempt at intimidation, his voice high and suspicious. The man's carefully curled handlebar mustache distracted Fred from catching his next words, the pitch too high a frequency for most animals to discern. " - must be a scintillating conversation to distract you from _your job_." The man procured a clipboard out of nowhere, pushing up his glasses to glare at him. "Your name?"

Fred blinked, and rose to his full height. "Fredrick Rapier," Fred affixed a thick, exaggerated French accent, pronouncing his alias as _'rah - pièrre'._ He dipped into a low bow. "Formally trained sous chef, at your disposal. You are?"

The man eyed him suspiciously. "Filius Flitwick; the _maître d_ ', _"_ he spoke in fluent, smooth French. "Where were you trained?"

"Uh - " he thought quickly to himself, remembering an old commercial that played on his family's cable telly; it only had three channels. The news, French cooking (his mother enjoyed tsking at the French's obsession with _fromage_ and _baguettes_ )and an evangelist channel. _"Le Radis Rouge,_ of course."Clearing his throat, Fred began to loudly chant the school fight song, upbeat and frantic, like he was at a spirit rally. _"Nos couteaux ne manquent jamais de couper les fruits, alors que d'autres écoles coupent le fromage - "_ The man halted him with a wince.

"Please. Alright, Rapier. I believe you," he said, exasperated. He rolled his fingers, beckoning Fred deeper into the kitchen. They strolled past several stations, the herbal and meaty scents tantalizing to the constantly hungry young man. Fingers quick, Fred plucked the chocolate garnish off a vanilla bean dessert, and stuffed it between his lips.

Flitwick halted beside a tall, high-heeled woman, her hair pulled back in a fashionable black chef's hat. He gestured impatiently at her, clearly in a hurry.

"This is Madame Rosmerta, our head chef. Do as she says, not as she does. Madame, this is Monsieur _Rapier,"_ he pronounced it with a sneer. "He claims to be our missing sous chef." Truthfully, their sous chef was knocked out in an alley, with a pillow beneath his head and a spare hundred dollars in his wallet to pay for the uniform - and the missed paycheck.

Rosmerta, a pretty woman with red lips stained with wine, smirked at him. "Grab a ladle, kid. I'm sure you can't screw up soup."

Fred saluted her, a bomb bouncing in his uniform pocket, and reached for a random utensil. "A _ladle._ That's a whisk,"Rosmerta stressed, tossing an overlarge spoon into his hands. He lifted it to eye-level, staring at it in faint confusion. She shook her head, charmed. "You're funny, kid. But get to work," with that, she deftly sliced a pineapple straight down the middle.

Fred think fell in love, a little.

* * *

Round tables were set beside the orchestra, playing directly to their left, the screech of the violin slightly off-putting. As the music met a crescendo, the opulent chandelier above head shuddered, ever so slightly.

Hermione wasn't normally a paranoid woman (her internal voice, which sounded a lot like Tonks, snorted at her), but with every scratch of a chair being pulled out and the murmur of voices ordering food, she felt herself becoming more and more on edge. Smoothing out the skirt of her jumpsuit, a nervous action, Hermione sat tentatively beside a pair of red-haired women. They spoke in hushed tones to one another, a sisterly repertoire that Hermione was not privy to. One was plain-faced and dressed in a conservative turquoise gown, while the other was . . . startling to witness, at first.

She had a liberal amount of work done, her pale breasts bulging and her lips plumped, bumpy and red, as though she'd had an allergic reaction. Hermione took a moment to ensure she wasn't,in fact, having an anaphylactic response to the shellfish _hors d'oeuvre_ on her plate - but no, the woman was giggling happily, though her face had no change in expression.

"The MacDougal sisters," Serena whispered to her. "Isobel and Morag."

Serena was a veritable fountain of gossip and scandal, having been subjected to upper class social circles her entire career. People seemed to treat her like anathema, both drawn in by her magnetic personality and warned to stay away due to her reputation. She didn't seem to care one way or the other.

"Isobel is a bachelorette and her younger sister a divorcée," she confided, flicking her fingers at an attendant to order a glass of red wine. Her voice lowered another octave. "At around seventeen, Morag was married this _awful_ older man who insisted she . . . _retain_ her youth and beauty while she still had it." Hermione winced. "Her family wasn't told until after the procedure, but by then, the damage had been done," a waiter filled her crystal glass and Serena spoke into it, trying, at the very least, to be discreet. "Isobel liberated her sister by, ah, _discovering_ some evidence of her brother-in-law's obsession with young, young girls, and delivering it to the police. It was a huge scandal, but," Serena shrugged, and Hermione could see the rigid muscles in her upper body clenching, receding. "Morag was made a very rich woman, and they started a business helping insecure young women recover from trauma. They call it _Bel's Castle . . ._ In my line of business, most of the women I _assist - "_ 'free from their husbands, she means', "End up at the Castle. I've always respected their passion," she nodded kindly at the large-lipped woman, whose eyes sparkled in recognition.

"Serena!" Morag said, her voice far younger, far sweeter than Hermione expected. She spoke with the slightest of lisps, and Hermione tried very hard not to stare at her lips - or her boobs. "I'm wearing one of your dresses," she said, proud, thrusting out a arm for Serena to inspect the lace sleeves. "We had to alter the bodice a bit," she blushed. "But the design was gorgeous."

"You look beautiful," Serena told her serenely.

 _Was this all these women spoke about?_ Hermione thought as Serena and Morag launched into a conversation. _Clothing and boob jobs?_

"This shellfish tastes under-cooked," she heard someone say from afar.

"Did you see his _tie?_ It's the color of my baby girl's pea puree, except . . . _paisley patterned_. Even worse. Oh, yes, thank you for asking. She's eleven months now, we're very proud."

"You know, if the 'Fat Lady' was around nowadays, no one would touch her ugly cu - "

Other voices began to drift through, meeting her ears, overwhelming and stifling. Hermione clenched her fingers around the stem of her glass, filled with ice cold water, condensation dribbling down her wrist. She flinched as someone reached over to uncurl her death grip.

"You're going to shatter the glass," Isobel MacDougal said gently. "I've done it a fair share myself; it's humiliating, and you'll forever be known as the girl with the tight grip." Hermione raised a brow. Isobel finished the thought. "Men will, of course, take it entirely the wrong way. They'll flock to you, waggling their brows, wanting a quickie in the loo. As though that'll make them any less gay," she pointed a finger directly at a very well-groomed man with a doting wife at his side; however, his gaze was fixed on the arse of a nearby waiter.

Hermione nearly snorted, lifting a hand to cover her mouth.

Isobel nodded her head toward the men rudely posturing on the Fat Lady's ability in bed. When he thought no one was looking, one of them quickly hid behind a vase of orchids to pick his nose. "They call themselves 'gentleman', but I've seen school dropouts with more class."

My god, Isobel was nearly as versed in gossiping as Serena - except she wasn't afraid to humiliate everyonein vicinity, very, very loudly.

"No one is talking about the artifacts," Hermione said, mournful. "Centuries of history right behind that door, a rare showcase of precious artifacts, and no one gives a damn. You'd think, if they're all sponsors and archeologists, they'd at least . . . make an _effort_ to appreciate it."

The red-head lifted a slight shoulder. "These things tend to become a bit boring, after you've looked at the same damn painting for three hours. You should've arrived earlier - there was a whole crowd chirping excitedly about the mysterious Mirror of Erised, with a secret message carved into the frame. What could it mean? What could language could it possibly be in?" Isobel rolled her eyes. "Then they realised it was just a particularly sparkly mirror, and the inscription was just a poem written backwards."

Hermione made a wounded noise. Personally, she thought the backwards message clever.

"Personally, I'm here for the food," Isobel confided, prodding at her bowl of soup, sad and grey. "Which leaves much to be desired. Whose cooking back there? It tastes . . . sweet, somehow. Like they used sugar instead of salt." Hermione fought a smile, thinking of Fred in his kitchen uniform. Perhaps she'd avoid ordering the soup tonight and convince Serena to do the same.

"So are you a sponsor, too?" Hermione asked, changing the subject.

"Yes," she took a deep sip of wine to wash the soup's taste from her mouth. "My mother, Alexandria MacDougal, was _obsessed_ with the Library she was named after. She studied archeology in college, but dropped out when I was born - my father thought she would do better as a housewife than an educated women," Isobel mumbled, clearly irate. "But whenever he gave her an allowance, she donated it all to the Library - for research and recovery. She died before the Book of Thoth was recovered, so . . . Morag and I are here for her sake. In her honor."

It seemed that everyone had a sob story to tell, today.

Hermione's let out a shaky breath, regretting the fact she was - technically - only at the exhibit to steal from it. So many people had worked to restore the Mirror and it's peers. All these untold stories, all these broken pasts, with only rotting remnants of history to remind the MacDougal sisters of their mother. What was she _doing?_

Just as Hermione opened her mouth to respond - an apology, an admission . . .

The fire alarms went off.

* * *

In the kitchen, Fred had been dutifully stirring a huge pot of indiscernible broth (he couldnt identify one soup from another, sue him) for nearly ten minutes. The smell, once delicious and hearty, was quickly becoming obnoxious as he watched vegetables turn to mush and chunks of meat bob up and down.

As steam billowed in his face, Fred scooped some soup and filled a tray filled with bowls. A waiter would occasionally come by to grab the bowls, disappearing with barely a 'thanks'.

Bored, Fred had begun tipping immense amounts of cinnamon and sugar into the pot, ruining the taste. There had been at least three complaints, and he took them all with grace, nodding solemnly at the ungrateful waiters, pretending that he gave a damn what those rich fucks thought about his soup. News flash; he didn't.

Fred slipped a hand into his pocket, touching the cool plastic of the fire bomb. It's anatomy was based off the incendiary bombs of World War Two, with an internal trigger and a capsule filled with incredibly flammable chemicals. Now, without his brother at his side, Fred felt a bit unprepared for the bomb's consequences. They had practiced, over and over, preparing for every possible outcome; his eyebrows were singed beyond repair, reminding him that even controlled fires were still _fires._

Closing his eyes, he nodded to himself, and set down the ladle. He was supposed to wait until half-way through the first course, when tension was most high in the kitchen and security, in contrast, were at their laziest. What were these posh germaphobes going to do at dinner, start a food fight?

"I'm ready _,"_ he whispered into his blue-tooth, slipping the capsule into his sleeve. No one was watching; no one had paid him an ounce of attention beside the ever-wary _maitre d',_ who had just fluttered off to assist a geriatric guest that had problems eating solid foods. Fred could almost imagine little Flitwick cutting the bits of food and hand-feeding them to to man or - he bit down a laugh - regurgitating the food like a mama bird fed it's babies.

Goodness, he was spiteful today. Was his reverse classism showing?

 _"Do it,"_ Tom urged in his ear. _"Do it now."_

Taking a bracing breath and leaning far, far, away, he thrusted the capsule beneath the soup pot. He waited, tense, for something to happen. Seconds passed with no reaction, and Fred took a tentative peek; on the open flame, it's degradable exterior began melting away until the flames licked at the priming composition. Fred hissed. _"It's not workin - "_

With a metallic _clang,_ heat billowed, cascading over Fred's body. He threw himself back, an arm up to protect his face from the splash of heated soup. Fred shrieked, as if he'd been burned.

"Fire!" A waiter shouted. They dropped their tray, a steak falling with a splat, and used a towel to bat at the flaming stove. The corner caught on fire, and he screamed, throwing it at the ground beside Fred's fallen body. He stamped on it, hard, bumping into a table of cups and making even more of a mess.

With a spray of cool water, the sprinklers went off, soaking their uniforms. The chemical fire persisted, billowing upwards toward the racks of pots and pans. Fred scrambled backwards, bumping into Rosmerta, who calmly yanked at the handle of a fire extinguisher

A cloud of white surrounded Fred, catching in his hair and giving him time to rip his shirt sleeve away for the grand reveal. Panting, Rosmerta glanced down at Fred, wine-stained lips falling open. Though she had intended to give him a sharp lecture on kitchen safety, her eyes drifted to his burns. Her hat was soggy from the sprinklers and slipped off her head with a wet _splat._

She sighed at the mangled state of his arm, and his trembling pout. "I guess you _can_ screw up soup. Someone call an ambulance!"

Fred found himself bit insulted, so he flicked the external trigger on the second bomb.

He allowed it to roll out of his jacket and beneath a wooden cutting table. After three ticks of the bomb, it went off. The table was engulfed in seconds. " _Again?_ " Rosmerta snarled, wheeling around.

That fire, unfortunately, was not so easy to put out, Rosmerta learned.

Someone screamed.

* * *

 ** _To be continued . . ._**


	16. Chapter 16

**_The Powerful_**

 **TanninTele**

* * *

 _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

 **VI:**

The ambulance that arrived shortly after was secretly filled with computers and surveillance.

Ron was having the time of his life driving it, the sirens wailing and the large vehicle rocking back and forth as he nicked the side of a curb. George clutched the sides of his laptop tightly as Ron made an abrupt, screeching stop at the gates of _Magic is Might._

"For fuck's sake," George murmured to himself, glancing over at Romilda, who was casually reading her cell phone while perched atop the portable cot. "Is he drunk? I thought he told Tom he was ' _the_ best _getaway driver.'"_

Romilda gave amused shrug. "This is him being careful."

The security guard at the gates spoke in hurried tones to his walkie-talkie, glaring at Ron as the boy's foot inched toward the acceleration. Fire alarms wailed inside the exhibit and the guard reluctantly let them through.

" _Thank you,"_ Ron breathed, surging through the gates. He shook his head, and muttered; "Arsehole. Are you ready back there, Mildy?"

George bit back a laugh at the nickname. " _Mildy?"_ after saying it out loud, he couldn't stop his laughter. "Really?"

Romilda stuffed her phone down her bra, nose in the air. "Shut it; my family calls me that. Ron thought it was cute." She shamelessly adjusted her white, tight-fitting cotton top, the nurse scrubs unpractical in their erotic nature.

"That's not all he thinks is 'cute'," George said mildly, before turning back to his computer. He had eyes on numerous cameras in and outside the building.

He wasn't some blackhat genius; he was smart, but not _that_ smart. Instead, they'd bribed a janitor with a pack of Abernath's good vodka to prep the building. People tended to dismiss and ignore waitstaff and sanitation workers. Really, it only took a little time out of the custodian's day to, say, write down the username and password to their surveillance program, or to leave a tub of floor wax on the staircase to the roof.

Ron pulled around the side of the building, nearly running over a disgruntled waitress. The kitchen staff were stumbling out of the building, coughing and crying, a cloud of smoke billowing behind them. Being half-carried by a woman was Fred, acting his little heart out.

"God, it _hurts!"_ he moaned despondently, draping his head against Rosmerta's chest. He caught sight of the ambulance, eyes widening in fear. "Do you think they'll have to amputate?" Fred whispered urgently, turning to grasp the loose fabric of her shirt.

Rosmerta rolled her eyes upward toward the heavens, asking for strength. "You'll be _fine,_ kid," she said, clearly fighting irritation. As 'Nurse' Romilda approached, the cot rolling in front of her, Rosmerta gratefully thrusted him into the arms of the attractive nurse. "He will be fine, won't he?"

Romilda took the sudden armful in stride, carefully lowering Fred onto the bed. He clutched his arm to his chest, whimpering pitifully. She leaned over him under the guise of inspecting his injury.

"Hey there," he murmured, giving her a crooked, dazed smile. "Am I in heaven? Because _you_ look like an _angel_."

"Drama queen," she roughly strapped him to the bed, holding him down. Romilda donned an assured smile. "Of course. We'll take good care of him. The burn looks worse than it is." She pushed the cot up a ramp and into the ambulance.

At the top of the ramp, face twisted in confliction, she glanced around at the coughing kitchen staff. The anxious _maitre d',_ who was shuffling guests out an emergency exit. The _vieux riche_ were irritated beyond belief, hands over their ears to muffle the fire alarms. One old man in a wheelchair was struggling to roll through the crowd. Almost guilty, she added, "The fire brigade and more ambulances will be provided shortly. I - uh- "

As if sensing her internal wrestle, Fred let out a drawn-out whine; "I'm dying!" Kicking back into action, Romilda shoved him into the ambulance and slammed the doors shut.

Immediately, Ron took off, dragging the vehicle out of sight. Fred relaxed into the cot, tired. "Whew. That took a lot out of me."

"Yeah, good job, Fred," George commented absentmindedly. "You really convinced them that you're a huge cry baby."

"Acting is my calling," he agreed dramatically. Once Romilda unbuckled him, Fred sat up straight, flexing his arm. "This makeup pinches," he complained.

"Poor baby," Romilda crooned, finding a pair of tweezers and a handful of moist towelettes. She carefully began peeling and wiping the liquid latex, removing the layers of red and brown paint. It really did look quite awful.

Fred rambled. "I still wish we'd done the ol' switcheroo trick instead; traded places like we did in primary, eh, Georgie?"

George snorted, half-ignoring his brother as he checked on Tonks' progress. With the exhibit cleared out for the fire brigade, she had free reign of the building. None of the cameras spotted her - a good thing, which meant she had found her way to the air vents. "Fred, we did that to Cormac last week."

"That's not so fun, everyone knows the difference by now," Fred pouted.

The boy was moving too much for Romilda to fix his arm. She clenched his wrist tightly, warningly. "We already let you use your stupidly difficult gore makeup," Romilda said. "Now let me concentrate."

Fred was dutifully quiet for a moment, before wiggling his fingers. "Well, it's a good thing we didn't decide to have my handsome face burnt off," Fred said, luring for compliments.

"You're handsome enough, sure," Sportingly, Romilda played along. "But I prefer my Weasley men with full capacity of their extremities."

"This?" he nodded down at the burn, winking. "Just a flesh wound, dear. But trust me, I have full control of my _other_ extremities." With a jerk, the ambulance clipped a wheel against the thick root of a tree. He scowled. "Oi, who's driving this thing?"

Placing the car in park beneath a large weeping willow, Ron twisted around in his seat, face red. "Fred, seriously. Stop flirting with my girl."

"I'm not 'your' anything," Romilda reminded him without looking up. "Possession of a person is an archaic concept."

"You object to _that,_ but you don't object to being called 'Mildy'? _"_ George wondered aloud.

She sent him a glare that could melt glaciers.

* * *

Crawling through air vents was just as gross as it sounded. It was the middle of fucking March in London, and just because it was the spring equinox didn't mean winter was done wrecking hell. So, naturally, the heater was still in operation and Tonks was sweating bullets. The all-black outfit wasn't doing her any favors, either, when it came to absorbing heat.

Grunting, she squeezed her shoulders through the pipes and wriggled forward. _"How you doin', Tonks?"_ Harry said in her ear, calm and secure.

Tonks reached two fingers toward her mouth, pulling down the ski mask so she could speak. "Just fine," she said, voice rough, her throat lined with dust. "Dandy. _Peachy,"_

 _"I get it,"_ Harry soothed. Even through the bluetooth, sarcasm dripped from her words. _"It sucks. But it'll be over soon, and then onto the fun part."_

"Says you. You're probably . . . sitting in your boyfriend's lap," she huffed, "Sharing leftover chocolate from Valentine's. Cozy. Safe. Not covered in d - d- _dust_ ," Tonks sneezed, groaning as a sheen of snot dripped down her nose.

Back at the _Hog's Head,_ Harry glanced up, guiltily, at Tom. Were they really so predictable? He shifted uncomfortably on the other man's lap.

Tom rolled his eyes. He pulled the microphone toward him and cleared his throat, tone sharp. _"Get back to work, Tonks."_

" _Hey_. I just realized," Harry twisted around, eyeing Tom suspiciously. "We never celebrated Valentine's."

"It's a month too late, Harry," Tom said wryly. "But I accept your well wishes."

"We didn't celebrate your birthday, either," Harry realized, jabbing a finger at his chest. "You _deliberately_ didn't remind anyone - " Tom's face skewed in immense distaste. Harry was scandalized. "How could you hate your birthday?"

"Some people hate Christmas or Saint Valentine's because of bad associations. This is no different," Tom spoke, blank faced. He grasped Harry's hand, pulling him close. "Harry, we don't _need_ paltry holidays like Valentine's to showcase our love. You hate chocolate, and I hate the color pink. And we did spend my birthday together, celebrating the new year with a kiss at midnight - that was all the present I needed."

Harry pouted. "But _Valentine's - "_

"Is a day celebrating a man who martyred himself, and it's also a day in which numerous people were massacred in America by Al Capone. It's really nothing to celebrate." Succumbing to Harry's pleading green gaze, Tom sighed. "I promise. Once this is over, I'll give you a nice ring to represent our 'undying love,'" he rolled his eyes, before stroking Harry's ring finger. He contemplated it. "Ruby, I'd think."

Harry flushed brightly.

 _"Shut up, you too,"_ Tonks breathed through the com, lifting a gloved hand to touch the blue-tooth. _"You are so disgustingly adorable, I can't concentrate."_

 _'Sorry,'_ Tom and Harry whispered, hands still clasped.

She had found a grate directly above an image of a fat lady in a grape-vine crown. Tonks removed a screwdriver from her belt, and shuffled back to get the right angle. The only sound echoing in the ventilation shaft was her heavy breathing and the occasional _shink_ of a screw popping loose.

Placing the screws between her teeth, Tonks removed the grate and placed it to the side. Staring down into the exhibit, she could tell it was abandoned; but that didn't mean the cameras were off. Unspoolling a bundle of rope from her belt, Tonks tied it onto a tool from her belt. The socket wrench was long and strong, able to hold her weight as she placed it over the vent's opening. The rope fell straight down, dangling only a half foot above the ground. Perfect.

Tonks lifted a finger to her ear. "George?" she murmured. "How far out is the fire brigade?"

 _"The police scanners say they'll be arriving soon. But the fire was on the other side of the building - you'll have at least ten minutes before the security guards return to their posts."_

"Right. I need those cameras off me. Are you ready?"

"Yep." George, in the car outside, had dutifully recorded the last few minutes of the surveillance footage and looped it; even as Tonks slowly lowered herself to the ground, the camera picked up nothing but previous footage played on repeat.

Holding her breath, the tip of Tonks' boot touched the ground. When no alarms sounded, when no security guards came rushing in, she let herself breathe. Wiping the dust and grime from her pants, she fixed her ski mask and paused. Tonks checked her wristwatch. Although inopportune, she could _really_ use some gum right about then. Her mouth tasted foul.

Allowing herself a few seconds, Tonks opened a little pocket in her tool-belt and removed a small strip of chewing gum. Unwrapping the aluminum, she stuffed the gum into her mouth. She winced a bit at the strong minty flavor, but saliva quickly filled her mouth, washing out the taste of dust. Staring down at the wrapper, she let the smallest of smiles cross her lips. Using a skill long-forgotten, she folded the aluminum in an origami crane. She placed the crane onto a display case, the silver paper glinting in the orange emergency lights.

They flashed in a strobe-like affect, casting rays of light across the golden decor and glass cases. The displays were certainly obstacles, making the pathway to the Mirror more like a maze than it needed to be.

The Philosopher's Stone was luminescent under the flashing lights. It was a beacon in the distance, the mirror tall and empowering; the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Finally reaching it, Tonks merely stared upwards for a long moment.

She wasn't the most introspective, philosophical or religious person, but she felt the sudden need to prostate herself before the mirror. Her reflection in it was otherworldly, a blur of black, almost smoke-like in the warped mirror. Even with the ski mask concealing her features, she looked bad-ass. Her curves were outlined in the tight black clothing, her waist slim and her breasts straining. She looked, a bit, like a harbringer of death. Tonks wasn't shallow, but she whistled softly to herself. There would be no doubt in anyone's mind that the thief responsible for the missing Philosopher's Stone was no _man._

Slipping past the velvet rope, Tonks carefully adjusted her tool belt. She reopened the little pocket and removed a pair of surgical gloves, the elastic snapping against her skin. Stepping on top the mirror's platform, she gained at least a few inches of height, and was able to easily reach the stone.

Holding it in place with one hand, a screwdriver in the other, she began prying it loose. _Quick but efficient,_ she chanted to herself, brows drawing in consternation. _Quick but efficient._

After a bit of tugging, the stone _cracked_ from it's placeholder.

The stone glimmered in her hand, the red crevices reflecting her smug face. She turned it around, inspecting it for cracks and scrapes. It was an ugly, blood red color, but even it's uneven edges were polished and cared for. "My precious," she hissed to herself, smirking at the reference. As her watch clicked down, Tonks realized she had only a few minutes left.

 _"I've got it!"_ Tonks informed her compatriots, tucking the gem into her jacket. It smacked against her rib cage, heavy and jagged.

Using her thumb and forefinger, Tonks removed the gum from her mouth and pressed it into the gaping hole left in the mirror's frame. It was a little joke between her and the police. The last time she robbed a convenience store (years ago, with Remus and his friends), she left a wad of gum in the cash register, gluing it stuck, once they were done. Of course, forensics would be able to find her DNA in the dried saliva, but by the time anyone noticed the theft, she and Hermione would be long gone.

They were looking for a summer home in Australia, down where Hermione's parents lived in retirement. With the money from the ruby, Hermione would be able to finish school anywhere she damn well pleased, and Tonks buy a hundred motorcycles, if she wanted. With that wistful dream in mind, Tonks unzipped another pocket in her belt and removed a perfect replica of the Philosopher's Stone. It was made of dyed quartz; courtesy of Gringotts and their penchant for forging artwork.

Sticking her tongue out in concentration, Tonks pressed the stone into the wet bubble of gum. The gum _squelched,_ echoing in the silence of the hall. Tonks slowly moved her hands away, pleased when the fake stone fit _perfectly._ To an untrained eye, it raised no alarms.

Speaking of, just then, the emergency lights blinked out, casting the exhibit in darkness. For a moment, Tonks fumbled around in the dark before the lights flooded back on. The sudden burst of light nearly blinded her.

 _"The fire brigade have finished - the fire's out,"_ someone whispered in her ear, but Tonks ignored them. Stepping down from the platform, she fixed the velvet rope and ran back to the ventilation grate. She yanked on the rope dangling from the vent, and was surprised when the wrench came flying down at her. It smacked metallically against the tile, and _that_ certainly caught some attention.

Tonks heard a muffled "What was that?"from the hall and shut her eyes.

She was such a fucking clutz.

A short figure crossed in front if the exhibit doors, curious. Tonks bit back another swear. "George?" she whispered hurriedly, darting behind the Fat Lady. She removed the gun from her tool belt, holding it delicately in both hands, peering out to see a man with a ridiculous moustache putter about the exhibit. "How long is left on those cameras?" She wondered if she could pistolwhip the man and make a break for it - but there simply wasn't enough time.

 _"You've got less than a minute. Are you okay?"_

Tonks didn't respond. Closing her eyes, counting to three, she jumped out from behind the painting and made a mad dash towards the door. The _maitre d'_ stumbled back several steps, holding a clipboard to his chest for protection. "Wait - _hey!_ Guards, guards!"

She slipped behind a corner. All Flitwick caught was a glimpse of Tonks' black figure as she disappeared down the hall. A group of security guards ambled in front of the exhibit, and the sharply-dressed man gesticulated wildly as he sent them her way.

Tonks lifted a hand to her ear, racing through the smooth marble halls. "I've been spotted. We're compromised."

 _"No, we're not,"_ Tom said forcefully, his tone violently adamant. _"Get to the roof - that's your main priority."_ Darting around a corner, she spotted the roof access door. It was unlocked, open to guests, because the view was apparently 'scenic'. Thank fuck for man's obsession with sunsets.

 _"The zipline is on the right-hand side behind a utility box."_

Breathless, Tonks bounded up the stone steps, the passageway narrow and stuffy. Tonks wondered if should could block the passage, and took a second to stop. Conveniently sitting unused at the top of the stairs was a full bottle of floor wax and a rag. Grunting, she maneuvered the bottle downward, the chemical spilling down the staircase and pooling at the bottom.

Hopefully that would slow them down. She stood and shoved her way onto the roof, a brisk breeze and dark skies greeting her. The view of the garden at night really was spectacular. Colorful night-blossoms bloomed, and cicadas buzzed cheerfully. Hoards of people were wandering the gardens, sticking in close groups, arms wrapped around themselves to protect from the slight breeze.

Tonks, already losing time, didn't have long to enjoy it. From her tool belt, Tonks removed the overlarge wrench and shoved it into the door handle. She considered it for a second. It was largely ineffective. "Damnit," she removed the wrench, tossing it aside. "That only works in movies."

 _"Are you there?"_

"Yeah," Tonks found the utility box, and the zipline attached precariously to the edge of the roof. "How did you even get that up here?"

 _"Bribed a janitor,"_ he said, dismissive. _"Go._ Go."

She panted. "I can't get away on the zipline. It'll lead them right to you."

Tom paused, breathing sharply in her ear. _"I'm patching you back to the extractment team."_

Within seconds, the line crackled, and Ron chimed through the com. He didn't bother with greetings. _"Send the stone down,"_ Ron told her, familiar voice nervous with anticipation. _"We'll_ _cut the line once it lands."_

Tonks stared down the zip-line. It disappeared behind a willow tree, under which a clunky white ambulance was parked. It was partially concealed by the darkness and the shade.

She knew what was at the end. She knew they'd be safe - but looking down, the ground suddenly seemed a lot farther than she liked. Tugging off her gloves, she grasped the satchel that was secured onto the small, metal trolley. She removed the rock from her jacket, smiling. "It seems this is where we part ways, my precious," she whispered.

 _"Are you . . ._ talking _to the stone?"_ Ron asked in her ear, astonished. _"And referencing Lord of the Rings? I never pegged you for a Tolkienist."_

"No! Shut up."

 _"I've heard of tree huggers, but never - "_

"Tom, how much is the ruby worth if I 'accidentally' shatter it?" she snapped, already on edge.

There was a moment of pregnant silence, and the com switched over to Riddle. His deep voice rumbled in her ear. _"Significantly less, Tonks. Just don't,"_ he warned.

Nostrils flaring, Tonks closed her eyes and forcefully relaxed. "I won't," Tonks told him, determined. With that, she gently pushed the trolley down. Gravity took care of the rest, transporting the satchel down, down, down - into the darkness.

As the pounding of footsteps ascended to the roof, Tonks fidgeted nervously, waiting for her cue. _"We've got it!"_ Ron's voice buzzed with excitement. The zipline was cut, and with a fast, metallic _chink,_ it snapped back to the roof, dangling off the building. Grunting, Tonks hefted herself downward, using the sharp metal wire as a rope. She slid down to the ground, the dark of night shielding her. The rope cut into her gloves, a thin trail of blood twining down her wrist.

From above, the roof door slammed open.

* * *

 ** _To be continued . . ._**


	17. Chapter 17

**_The Powerful_**

 **TanninTele**

* * *

 _Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters._

* * *

 **VII:**

The leaves of the willow tree brushed against Ron's arms, his skin prickling with gooseflesh - he was ticklish.

With a suppressed grunt, he captured the Philosopher's Stone and passed it down to George, who was making sure Ron didn't fall down while standing on the cot. "Mail's here," George said blandly, holding onto the stone with two, large hands.

"Yeah . . . that was pretty easy," Ron said, swiping upwards with a knife. He cut the zip-line where it was attached to the tree trunk, the metal wire _chinking_ as it flew out of sight.

George agreed, frowning. "Deceptively easy."

"Why can't we just leave with it _now_?" Fred asked, leaning over to glance excitedly at the stone. "I mean, I know the plan. I was there for it. But why not just," he slashed through the air, vague. Romilda glared at him for nearly smacking her. The ambulance was far too small for all four of them, and they were all pressed up against each other, squeezed between a cot, computers and other necessary paraphernalia. Fred continued. "Why not just cut out the middle man?"

"The alarms were triggered," George informed them, lifting a hand to his com. Tom was speaking rapidly in his ear, angry at the fact Tonks' connection had been abruptly cut. She'd turned it off, likely to lower the risk of distraction as she made her hasty getaway. "They know someone was inside the exhibit, and they know someone is sneaking around. Any vehicle going in and out of the gardens will be heavily monitored, possibly being searched."

"Thus, Plan B," Ron inserted. He liked to sound important. Ron pointed to Romilda. "The reason my girlfriend is here, my ex-girlfriend is inside, and why Tom spent an inordinate amount of money on this damn machine," Ron patted the gem faceting equipment, placed where an IV stand usually would reside in the tight space.

Fred rolled his eyes. "Enough with the exposition, Ronnie. This isn't a movie. There isn't an audience, unless you count those idiots back at headquarters." He sat back on the cot and reclined. Romilda cleared her throat, and he held our his arm, allowing her to quickly finish bandaging his 'wound' with a cotton wrap. She pinched the edge and pulled at the hem, ensuring that there would be room for the rubies - once they'd cut the Stone into smaller bits, that is.

Who was she kidding.

Once _she_ cut the Stone.

Romilda was the most skilled operative in this entire van, and she wasn't about to let her talents go unnoticed. "Watch and learn, boys," she said, gently shoving Ron out of the way. She sat before the gem faceter and held out a hand. George dutifully plopped the stone's satchel into her palm. She weighed it, considering the amount of work this would take - a lot. It was a big fucking stone. She was amazed these idiots hadn't broken it already.

Sliding on a pair of surgical gloves, of which they had in abundance, Romilda removed the stone and began examining it with a jeweler's loupe. Her eye was magnified as she inspected the ruby for any potential flaws that could create weakness in the stone. Flicking on the machine, which began with a dull _whir,_ she began.

The process was arduous and required immense concentration. The latter requirement was difficult, obviously, when trapped in a van with three brothers who were constantly at odds. The machine's blade was circular and incredibly sharp. If one of those halfwit Weasleys even _bumped_ into her, causing her to gravely injure herself, Romilda wouldn't hesitate before screaming _'THIEFS!'_ and point a bleeding finger every single individual even partially involved in this operation. She could fake cry with the best of them.

Kidding, kidding. She was kidding. Mostly.

The truth of the matter was, Romilda did need to be vigilant, but she'd already given the boys a talking-too earlier that day. They stayed mostly quiet, watching with a mixture of immense fascination and extreme boredom as she slowly, methodically, began carving the stone into pebble-sized bits. The cuts were precise, deep enough that each carat maintained it's blood-red luster, each separate gem worth . . . a price Romilda couldn't even comprehend, much less convert. The quality of the cut increased it's value, and although they had little time allotted for 'Plan B', she did her best.

Finally, as she chipped off the last carat, Romilda wiped the sweat from her forehead and turned off the machine. "It's done." Holding up a single gem between her thumb and forefinger, the crevices of the tiny stone glinting beautifully, she whistled. "And a damn fine job I did, too."

"Excellent," Fred nodded, pleased. He held out his wrist, wiggling it before her. "Are we going to do this, or what?"

Feeling slightly put-out and less-than-impressed with his level of gratitude, Romilda scooped the gems off the faceter tray. She poured them into his open sleeve, allowing them to collect within the bandage, out of sight and unlikely to be inspected by security guards. He hissed as the stones, still hot from the machine, singed his skin. "Jesus. You could've warned me."

Romilda smiled sharply. "Oops."

Ten minutes later, Fred could be found stumbling toward the exhibit's entrance, the bandage fresh around his arm. The security guards were incredibly tense - and no wonder, the exhibit had nearly burnt down _and_ they'd just been robbed. Eyeing him suspiciously as he tried to reenter the kitchens, they called Flitwick out for verification. Flitwick approached them, appearing just as frazzled as before, if not worse. He jumped at every movement in his peripheral vision and the gel in his hair had been sweated out, leaving his hair in mad spikes.

"He claims to be a chef named 'Rapier'," the guard said, mocking his accent. "He looks like a troublemaker, to me."

"That's him," Flitwick sighed. "But I'm _quite_ certain he was horribly burnt and taken away by the emergency responders," he said drily. "Shouldn't you be in the hospital?"

"It seemed worse than it was," Fred grumbled, holding his arm close to his chest. "I can still work. Come on, man," he pleaded, ready to go on his hands and knees. "I have rent to pay. A family to provide for."

The _maitre d'_ gave him a dubious look, before sighing again, world-weary. "Fine," he snapped, whipping a clothe napkin off a plate. "I have an announcement to make in a moment. For now, cover that monstrosity. You're a wait boy. Do _not_ fuck up." His moustache twitched with near autonomy, the ends curling with anger.

Fred made the mistake of lifting his wounded arm in a salute, before grimacing in false pain. "Ow."

* * *

"We - the archaeological guild - dearly apologize for this evening's dramatics. We _assure_ you you'll all be properly bored again by the time we finish tonight," Flitwick's voice flooded the exhibit, causing a polite twitter of laughter. "While our staff diligently work on bringing out your dinners, please enjoy a glass of red wine and our excellent orchestra."

If you had told Hermione a year ago - or, hell, even a month ago, that she'd be _enjoying_ herself at some elite function, she'd call you a liar. But against all odds, Hermione was strangely content with the evening. The MacDougal siblings and Serena Zabini were better company than most, and after the impromptu jaunt outside, the event was livelier than ever. Gossip flew, tempers were high and tongues were loosened as glasses were topped off with rich red wine.

A sense of finality crept in, triumph and satisfaction thrumming beneath Hermione's skin; it was a reaction she only achieved after gaining an 'outstanding' on a school project, or when she finished translating a novel from some dead language to English. Hermione savored each bite of steak as it was served, the wine bitterly sweet as it brushed her tongue. "Did you know," Isobel said as she gulped down the last drops in her cup. "The French introduce wine to their children from as early as the age of six - in small increments, of course, but it strengthens their tolerance, not to mention their taste palate."

Hermione frowned. Her parents had discouraged her from drinking even when she breached the drinking age. Her father had brushes with the law when he was younger, driving under the influence and landing himself behind bars once or twice. It was during a nightly stay at the courthouse in college that he met Hermione's mother, arrested for protesting Apartheid on campus. Although their story had ended up happy, Hermione could distinctly remember the laminated photos of students who'd been killed in drunk driving accidents or overdoses, placed in memorium on the inside walls of her high-school.

Isobel seemed to read her expression, smiling wryly. "It's in other countries, where sixteen-year-olds break into their parent's wine cabinets and share it with their friends, that _issues_ arise."

"No shite," Hermione murmured under her breath, before turning red as her wine. "I mean - "

The table laughed. "No worries, dear," Isobel told her, eyes sparkling. "A little profanity now and again is no crime. Behind closed doors, I bet you that _maitre d'_ isn't the most _professional_ of hosts, either. The man has already recited the riot act to that poor waitstaff twice in my periphery."

Fred was, indeed, having his dignity crumpled up and served to him on a silver platter. He had accidentally dropped a half-empty bowl of soup onto the polished shoes of a guest, ingraining himself into everyone's memory as the perpetually clumsy, dull-witted server boy.

No one ever suspects an idiot of grand larceny until it's too late.

Fred stood dumbly in front of Flitwick, dissassociating from the lecture. "What do I have to do?" Flitwick hissed, stomping a foot. "Light a fire under your arse to get you moving?"

"I think we've already had enough fires already today, thanks," Fred said under his breath.

Clucking his tongue, Flitwick tore a pen from his clipboard and quickly scrawled out a note. "Any and all damage you've inflicted will be docked from your paycheck," he warned. " _Including_ the bill for that man's waxed alligator leather dress shoes!"

 _His shoes cost more than half a year's worth of groceries,_ Fred thought in amazement, slightly vindictive. He kept his expression carefully cowed, nodding along in resignation. "Naturally, sir. I am - again - very sorry. It won't happen again."

It happened again.

He accepted a bottle of liquor from another staff, holding it like he would a precious child - if only to appease the ever-vigilant and ever-wary _maitre d'._ Fred made his rounds, topping off glasses with a bland smile plastered to his features. He ducked away with a polite apology as Reba Diggory batted him away, looking exhausted. Reaching Hermione's table, he couldn't help his gaze drifting down to Morag MacDougal's straining brassiere in near awe. She caught his stare and turned a light, endearing shade of pink.

He snapped out of it as Hermione pointedly set her long-stemmed glass in front of her, clicking the bottom against her plate. Fred moved between Hermione and Serena to reach it, and began to pour out the last of the bottle. He could feel the weight of their gazes, Serena watching him from beneath heavily lidded eyes, Hermione tense and warm beside him. The buzz of idle chatter washed over him, a sheen of sweat gathering beneath his arms, the bandage sticking wetly to his skin.

Amazingly, between starting a fire, faking a grave injury, and _this -_ he'd gladly chose the other two.

Clearing her throat to continue a conversation, Serena jostled her chair, bumping into Fred's elbow. His grip slipped, and with a splash of red, he spilled the wine directly onto Hermione's lap. She jolted out of her seat with a swear, looking down at the stain with a great deal of horror in her eyes. The deep red contrasted against the almost peach color of her jumpsuit, but it looked less like an artful splash of color, and more like her mensies had arrived early.

"Oh, god," Fred set aside the bottle and grabbed the napkin from his arm. He began to pat her down, stammering apologies. Twisting his wrist, head bowed over the task, he loosened the rubies from the bandage, letting them slip down into one of the pantsuits' pockets. She felt the sudden weight and stayed very still, an expression of consternation twisting her features.

"Getting a little handsy, there," she whispered to him. Fred patted her stomach with the clothe lightly, teasingly, and was treated with a slap upside the head.

Serena sneered at him. "You're doing it all wrong," she pushed Fred out of the way. "Let me. I have _experience_ cleaning red spots from my wardrobe." Pulling Hermione away from the table, she gave the MacDougals an exasperated look. "This idiot _deserves_ to have the riot act read to him."

Fred mock-gasped, lifting a hand to his heart, as though wounded.

"No, no, accidents happen," Morag tried to assure him, unfailingly kind.

Isobel made to stand, as though to assist the two women. "I can help . . . "

"No!" Hermione blurted, breathless. She hid half-way behind Serena, hands over the stain. "No, thank you." As Isobel protested, Hermione wondered, _would this too-kind woman be the death of them?_

"I have it well under control," Serena cut in, expression confident, voice cool, brokering no arguments. Isobel reluctantly sat down. "Thank you, but there is no need for your evening to be ruined, as well. We'll only be a moment, carry on."

As they cut through the tables, the other guests murmuring in sympathy, Fred nervously wrung his napkin.

 _"Rapier!"_ Flitwick's voice, low but furious, beckoned from the kitchen.

"I think someone is calling for you," Morag said quietly, eyes wide with pity. Fred shot her a small, shaky smile, taking in her perpetually tight expression and the contrasting softness to her voice. She was pretty - in an alien way, but pretty all the same.

As Flitwick hissed his name once more, Fred rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, begging some entity - any entity - that his subsequent sacking wouldn't be any more humiliating than starting a fire, and then promptly spilling wine, both in front of pretty ladies.

Meanwhile, Serena ushered Hermione into the bathroom, grimacing at a woman who stood fixing her make-up at the sink. "Oh, dear," the woman said, stopping to twist down her deep purple lipstick. "Clumsy?"

"Something like that," Hermione agreed grimly. Serena ripped down a handful of white paper towels, and began to soak them under the sink. The other woman left to give them space, and as soon as the door fell shut, Serena stopped the tap.

" _Hurry_."

Dipping a hand into her pocket, Hermione pulled out the rubies. They fell out of her palm onto the marble counter-top, where Serena began to sort through them. "I think we can fit them all."

Hermione hummed, removing the Black family heirloom from her hair. The curls fell out of their messy up-do, falling into her face as she picked off all the fake plastic gems and tossed them into a toilet, which flushed away to erase the evidence. Using a pair of tweezers from her handbag, Serena plucked at a ruby and methodically began snapping them into their jewelry. Earrings, belts, cuff links, the poinsetta-shaped comb; the rubies slotted in perfectly, held in with glue, disguised as a bottle of nail polish. As they reached the end of their task, Serena glanced along the floor for any lost gems. "Damn," she swore, swooping down to pick up a forgotten ruby. "There's one left. Where do we put it?"

Giving out a long sigh, Hermione held out her hand for it. "My parents would kill me if they thought I got a belly-button piercing," she informed Serena, lifting the hem of her top. She allowed Serena to swipe the cold glue across her naval, and pressed the ruby in. She inspected herself in the mirror, tilting her head. The ruby earrings sparkled, tickling against her cheek, and the hair-comb seemed to glisten brighter. Every part of her gleamed, and glancing at Serena, her smile was just as bright.

Serena returned her wry grin. "Who knows," she said, returning to the sink to dab carefully at the wine stain. "Maybe your girlfriend will think it's hot."

* * *

Tonks was breathing heavily, panting like a dog, but grinning all the same.

She had abandoned her motorbike somewhere in the midst of London city, swerving into a dark, dank alley to avoid the approaching police vehicles. The only witness, a homeless man, had eyed her all-black garb with only a roll of his eyes, before returning to the blunt stuffed between his lips.

"Uh - can I have that?" Tonks had asked him, and after bartering for it with her ski mask and the contents of her tool belt, he'd complied. He got the better end of the deal.

She filled her lungs with the heady smoke, closing her eyes to savor the enhanced feeling, and when she opened her eyes a few minutes later, she found herself in front of a seedy tavern. It wasn't _The Hog's_ _Head,_ but it would do. Pushing open the doors, she greeted the bartender with a smirk. "I'm of age," she told him, when he arched a brow at her. Tired, and clearly too lazy to fact-check, he served her a pint.

Grasping the slippery handle with a trembling hand, irises blown, she lifted the cup in a toast.

"To . . . to _victory,"_ she said, after a moment. The other patrons, playing a game of snooker in the corner, grumbled a consensus.

Tonks laughed.

* * *

It took exactly one day for the _Louvre_ to discover the false stone, a week for Tonks to buy two tickets to Australia (and a new motorbike), three weeks for Fred and George to place a down payment on a joke shop, and twelve years before Serena and Narcissa's efforts to legalize gay marriage finally came to fruition.

Twelve years, for that matter, is comprised of exactly forty-eight seasons of fashion, enough time for Harry - with help from Serena - to launch his career as a designer for the darker, criminal side of the wealthy elite. Black is _always_ in trend; Tonks, vibrant by day, devious by night, is a perfect example of that. Australia had been a lovely sabbatical, and Hermione had an incredibly tiring but very rewarding time going for her master's degree in social justice. Anyone who says politicians are just well-dressed criminals . . . are absolutely correct.

As for all the others, Ron and Romilda, Colin Creevey, Griphook, Greyback and all the other minor characters involved in the events of March twentieth, 2002, well - use your imagination.

Tom and Harry, for all their dubious assertions that _caring for the individual is better than 'the greater good'_ , were rather wrapped up in each other's lips for a good portion of their relationship. For all they knew, Greyback was behind bars and Griphook was grumpily sitting on his throne at the gentleman's club. Colin Creevey, at least, became a photographer for the _Daily Prophet,_ working under the head reporter, Romilda Weasley. She had been promoted to Rita Skeeter's spot at the _Daily Prophet,_ and while her journalism was still dramatic and sensationalized, Romilda had a peculiarly insightful view into the inner workings of London crime. Her jewelry line was adopted by Harry, who decided - against his criminology teacher's urgings - that perhaps working in fashion was a great deal more fulfilling than chasing the next serial killer.

What _did_ happen to Minerva McGonagall? In the scheme of things, she wasn't very important, but nothing is _ever_ just coincidental.

Neither is Griphook's comment - _"I believe I at least deserve the privilege to speak with the 'Death Eaters'_ true _leader."_

 _"You're looking at him."_

 _"Oh?_ Am I _really?"_

Before the legalization of same-sex marriage, before the move to Australia, but after the finale of their great heist, Griphook's question was finally answered.

* * *

It was becoming all-too regular for people to catch Tom and Harry having sex in Tom's office. Perhaps it was an exhibition kink of Tom's, or perhaps the world simply had it out for them, but either way - it was obnoxious.

A party was raging in the headquarters, watered-down vodka downed furiously, like it was an end-of-term college party. Tom and Harry had slipped away from the festivities, none-too-surreptitiously making eyes at each other. "You look hot in that suit," Harry whispered to Tom, grabbing a handful of his perfectly coiffed hair, dragging him down to sloppily kiss the corner of his mouth. Tom groaned deeply, sucking Harry's tongue in deep. The cavern of his mouth was warm and wet; Harry melted into the kiss.

Tom's hand drifted down to cup Harry's bottom, backing them toward his desk. "And _you . . ._ " he trailed a finger down beneath his belt, tracing the smooth, bare skin of his perineum. "Aren't wearing any - "

"Thomas, please," a voice interrupted from behind them. "Keep your hands to yourself."

Tom's hands tensed on Harry's arse, quickly pulling away as though he'd been scolded by his mother. Harry's eyes shot open, meeting Tom's glazed, exasperated blue ones. Though Tom shook his head imperceptibly, begging him not to look, Harry couldn't help glancing over Tom's shoulder to the woman sitting in his desk chair.

The woman, short hair a mixture of strawberry blonde and silver, smiled gently at him. "I hope this hasn't placed a damper on your party, boys," she said, carefully setting aside the files she'd been snooping through. "I just thought I'd pop in, keep an eye on the festivities."

Harry cleared his throat, bewildered, but his British sensibilities forced him to be polite. "Er," he peeled himself off Tom, fixing his shirt. He blushed when he realized Tom had nearly shared the fact he wasn't wearing any underpants to this strange guest. "Not to be rude, ma'am, but who are you?"

The woman's blue eyes twinkled in amusement. "Really, Thomas? You haven't told him about me?" she asked, crossing her legs beneath the desk. It seemed she was getting comfortable.

Despite the infuriating non-answer, reminiscent of Tom when he was trying to be playful and evasive, Harry could respect her sense of style. The trim, eggplant pencil skirt and the large shoulder-pads of her blazer should _not_ have been attractive, but she wore them with power and with grace for such a slim woman. He guessed she was in her fifties, but wore the age well, smile lines crinkling her cheeks and blue eyes still bright. Something was familiar about her - something he couldn't place his finger on.

Sensing his confusion, she leaned forward and offered him a hand. Her grasp was firm, hand soft and nails carefully rounded - with the shortly trimmed nails and the hair-cut, Harry's gaydar was tingling.

"Call me Arianna. None of this ma'am business."

Automatically, Harry made to introduce himself, but she stopped him. "I know who you are, Harry. I've been watching you for a long while, dear. I'm not going to tell you that you're 'special', because I already have to deal with one inflated ego," she shot a glance at Tom, who seemed offended. "But since you met Tom, I've . . . monitored your life, including your relationship with that ridiculous Draco boy. While I am sorry for the emotional wounds that relationship caused, I'm not sorry it ended." She told him. "I encouraged Tom to have a _conversation_ with the DeLacours, and after that, things just seemed to . . . fall into place," her tone darkened, lips curling into a duplicitous smile. "Revenge is, of course, the best incentive to turn an innocent school child into a hardened criminal."

" _Hardened_ . . . " Harry mouthed, standing straighter. "Wait, you've been _stalking_ me? Did you know about this?" he aimed a finger at Tom, who - alarmed, raised his hands in submission. "That she's been _molding_ me into this - " he flapped his hands wildly. "Perfect little solider for your cause? That's crossing a line, Tom."

"It was," Arianna agreed, enjoying the sight of his green eyes lighting with anger. "But, sometimes, lines need to be crossed. Your skills were very useful to this expenditure, weren't they?" As she began to list them, her intent clearly to soften him up, he huffed. "You have an extensive list of equally skilled friends, an eye for disguise, _and_ you have a particular empathy towards criminals that impressed even the unflappable Minerva McGonagall. It's a shame you aren't interested in law enforcement," she said idly. "We could always use an undercover operative, but, _c'est la vie._ It's not meant to be."

Harry gaped. "You - you _know_ Professor McGonagall?"

"Know her?" Arianna smirked, and fluffed her hair. "Darling, I've been _dating_ her. We met while she was investigating my estranged brother's . . . proclivities," her lips tugged into a frown. "While she was working in law enforcement, she found tracked me down, hoping I would provide some insight. When she instead discovered I was the leader of a crime organization, I'm afraid I had to have her kidnapped." She said it so casually that Harry could almost be fooled they were having an entirely different conversation.

"But Minnie's a rational, formidable woman, and after hearing my story, decided she'd rather see Albus behind bars than me. She was impressed that you saw through Albus' plot so quickly. I have to thank you for that, Harry - I feel better knowing he's somewhere he can't hurt anyone."

Memory reeling, back to a time before the Philosopher's Stone, before Tom, back when he was grappling between a choice of careers (a conflict that seemed so mundane now), he remembered the story of Albus Dumbledore. "Albus - " he said weakly. "The Dollmaker?"

She nodded, grave, a strand of silvery hair falling into her face. "When we were younger, Albus practically raised me and my other brother - Aberforth, the bartender - you might know him?" she gestured upwards toward the bar, and Harry made a strained noise. Was _everyone_ related, now? His gaze drifted to the portrait of 'Sister A', guarding a secret passageway, and he swore; the portrait was a spitting image of Arianna if she was a child, and he felt stupid for missing it.

Arianna continued. "When we were younger, Albus was . . . " she paused. "Prone to obsessions. He was _attached_ to a neighbor of ours, looked up to him - a cruel boy that liked to burn bugs and torture cats in his free time," she curled her nose. "The boy would harass me and other members of the neighborhood, throwing stones at us, threatening to bury us alive, brandishing knives that had been hidden in his sleeves. When I tried to tell Albus, my brother ignored me, told me I was being silly. When I insisted, he became . . . violent. He didn't like it when people 'lied' to him. I was a child, only six or so, and I was only trying to 'tell someone I trusted' that I was being bullied . . . but his obsession was too deep. I was attacked one day while setting up a lemonade stand, was admitted to the hospital. The nurses saw that some bruises were older than the others, and they took me away from our parents. The childcare system was different back then. They either cared too much, or not enough," Arianna's eyes slipped shut, and Harry glanced at Tom, who seemed equally drained of energy.

"I was too young to protest the relocation, and I was sent to live with a truly lovely family who changed my name from Ariadne to Arianna - easier to pronounce," she shrugged a slim shoulder. "Aberforth contacted me several years later, and we've remained in close contact - but when I heard about Albus, I couldn't help but feel . . . pity. Anger. Disgust. My oldest brother had been led to believe I had died . . . although there was no funeral. He shifted his obsession with our neighbor onto his memory of me, and those little girls paid the price."

The woman nearly trembled with rage. She lifted her hand up to pinch her nose.

"I won't say I dedicated myself to revenge, or to a life of crime in order to punish all those like my brother," her lips twisted in a wry smile. "It sounds awfully cliche, even if there's a truth to it. No, my reasons for leading the Death Eaters are entirely my own, and neither of you are privy to them. My point, if there ever was one, is that tragedies and revenge are like fuel to a flame. I used your failed relationship with the Malfoy brat to further my own means, and there's no use being upset about it, when the results are so clearly in your favor."

Though she laid it out so rationally, Harry did not appreciate being told his emotions were useless. "Water under the bridge, huh?" he huffed, crossing his arms. The look he sent Tom clearly meant _this was not over._ "So . . . what was all this then? An initiation? A test? Some convoluted fraternity-esque hazing?"

The sparkling of Arianna's eyes, the shade a mixture between icy grey and sky blue, was quickly becoming annoying. "You are rather perceptive, aren't you?" she acknowledged, sitting straighter. She reached for some paperwork, licking a finger as she began to comb through it. "I took the liberty of going through some of Tom's notes. I hope you don't mind, Tom?"

"Of course not," he bit out.

"Ah. Here we go," she hummed. "The break-out of Fenrir Greyback. Everything about that situation was a pity - the man has worked with us for several years, and although I knew he was doing work on the side, I was _very_ disappointed in him for getting caught,"

"And mauling a child," Harry said pointedly.

"Of course, that too. The Death Eaters have many enemies, but most of them are small, insignificant gangs that often act too big for their breeches. In this instance, however, it seems an _old_ enemy has become a _new_ enemy, and he has _influence."_

Harry glanced at Tom, unsure. Despite the fact this woman was, undoubtedly, a bitch, she had a way of speaking that drew him in. "An old enemy?"

"I knew him as a boy - " Arianna told them lightly. "But over the years, he's escalated from throwing rocks and torturing animals, to jailbreak and treachery. I suspect he had a hand in the recent prison break, turning our members against us. Really - all the way from Germany," Arianna sighed, shaking her head. She sat up, and waggled her finger at them. "If you two are going to help me with this, there is something you will need to keep in mind."

A heavy hand landed on Harry's shoulder, the pressure there, but not overwhelming. It was Harry's decision whether or not to throw in his hat, to take up the gauntlet, to accept the offer of an olive branch. Taking in a deep breath, Harry shifted into Tom's side, showing an unerring solidarity despite it all.

Whatever they did, they did together. Harry spoke, speaking for them both. "What is it?"

Arianna, approving, leaned over her elbows, staring them dead in the eye. Blue met green, both sharp and verdant, two birds of a feather crossing paths. She spoke low, and Harry had the sensation that if this was a movie, the soundtrack would be reaching a crescendo.

" _Never,"_ she started. "Or . . . I mean, _always - "_ Arianna paused again, frowning. Her fingers flicked as she tried to work it out in her head. "No, I was right the first time. Alright - " With a slap of her hands against the table, she began again.

" _Never._ Underestimate. The crimes of Grindelwald."

* * *

 ** _The End of_ The Dreadfuls _Series_**


End file.
